


not a straight line but a triangle

by FoxNonny



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Modern Thedas, Polyamory Negotiations, love triangle in the best goddamn way possible, with magic and species and such
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxNonny/pseuds/FoxNonny
Summary: Dorian Pavus finds himself falling for a coworker, much to his dismay. The Iron Bull is finding it hard to keep his eyes off a certain elf server at his favourite pub. Luckily they're both adults in love with each other who can talk these things out... though they can't help but think that the other would absolutely adore the person they're falling for.Or, that story I talked about writing months ago on Tumblr about Dorian and Iron Bull independently falling for the same goddamn elf and the shenanigans that might ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS REALLY NOT EDITED AND THERE'S SO MANY THINGS I SHOULD BE DOING RIGHT NOW LIKE CATCHING A BUS
> 
> BUT ANYWAY
> 
> HERE'S THAT THING I SAID I'D DO AND I DID IT SO I HOPE YOU LIKE IT

In all his years in Tevinter, Dorian never thought he'd have a life like the one he currently lives. 

It was well within the scope of his wildest dreams, of course - he prides himself on having a broad imagination, though these days it's largely taken up by questions such as "what would happen if you crossed a phone battery with chaos magic" (the answer, as it turned out, was a phone that never runs out of battery, but often pocket dials other dimensions, which gets very confusing for whoever is tasked with sorting out Dorian Pavus's phone bill for the month). Back in Tevinter, he would wistfully imagine what it might be like to live free of his family name and destiny, free of the confines of the magisterium and all its trappings. Free to love whoever he wanted; yes, love, not just fuck and pretend it never happened for the sake of his title and reputation. 

Despite the rest of the world happily embracing the modern age, Tevinter prides itself on remaining archaic - much of the newer technologies coming out of Orzammar are banned from the country outright, and conveniences such as the computer (never mind the internet) and television are largely frowned upon as "crutches of the  _soporati._ " Most of Dorian's professors and mentors from the old country, even the more progressive ones, still insist on communicating via crystals, and still refuse to back up their vast libraries digitally. Dorian has nightmares about the great library of Minrathous catching fire one day. 

No, the life he lives now is far, far different from his murky and unhappy upbringing in Tevinter. For one thing, he has an actual  _job_ , not just a life dictated by his title and political standing. He works as one of the heads of research at Ferelden's Skyhold Institute, a university and military academy set on top of a mountain in the Frostbacks. There's a decent enough town surrounding the place, well-populated by a fascinating mix of students, scholars, and soldiers, and no shortage of work for a misplaced Tevinter mage with a brain chock-full of knowledge from some of the Imperium's deepest and best-kept archives. 

For another, he has a roomy apartment above a decent coffeehouse with all the modern trappings - a dishwasher, a laundry and dryer machine, a TV, a desktop computer as well as his laptop, an actual  _microwave_. Even now, he still isn't entirely used to it, and will find himself doing things like washing dishes by hand while the dishwasher sits empty right beside him.

He has an odd vendetta with the laundry machine. They got off on bad terms on one of Dorian's first days in this apartment, when the laundry machine caused one of Dorian's favourite shirts to pill oddly, but that isn't the entirety of Dorian's sour opinion of it. 

Whenever he looks at a laundry machine, he can't help but see the faces of the slaves his family owned when he was a child, arms laden with baskets full of clothing that they would wash by hand, returning clean and pressed shirts, pants, and robes to closets and drawers.

Of course, they aren't called "slaves" anymore. Pressure from other countries to drop the slave trade has forced Tevinter to adopt more of a "serf" system, framing it as a way for wealthy families to help those suffering in poverty. In return for basic services, the unfortunates are given a place to sleep and food to eat.

So, slavery. Just without the chains.

Technology and its gut-churning implications aside, it's the other occupant of the apartment that Dorian would have found most surprising, were he to go back in time five years and tell his younger and far angrier self what was in store for him. He shares this space with a seven-foot Qunari military contractor, who likes to go by the name "Iron Bull."

He shares this space with him, because they are together. In a romantic sort of way. Though the whole "love" thing has come up in conversation with Bull a few times now, only once when Dorian was actually sober, he still finds it hard to wrap his head around. 

Their relationship isn't built on wild confessions of undying devotion anyway, and that's fine by Dorian - he isn't sure he would trust it if it were. It's largely built on Bull annoying the ever-loving shit out of him, then fucking him so good he can't see straight for a little while afterwards. Between that there's takeout and chess games and Bull determined to catch Dorian up on every bad film ever made over the last few decades, with the occasional (though far less occasional than Dorian would ever admit) moment of sincerity. It works, whatever this is. It just works. 

Even after two years together, they've never had any kind of conversation regarding monogamy - it never really seemed necessary. They weren't exclusive when they first fell into bed together, and though Dorian did occasionally experience odd bouts of jealousy at first that he wrote off as not giving a shit because he's emotionally stupid like that sometimes, it soon became clear that Bull didn't look at other people the way he looked at Dorian. And Dorian didn't look at other men the way he looked at Bull.

Eventually, they stopped seeing other people. Neither of them seemed to feel the need to find anything outside of what they already had. For his part, Dorian hasn't felt anything like what he feels for Bull for anyone else in quite some time. 

Which is why it was quite jarring and upsetting to realize that, without really paying attention to what was happening, Dorian's gone and developed something resembling feelings for one of his research assistants.

-

Dorian doesn't really  _have_  to see his research assistant right now. He just wants to. 

He tries to tell himself on the way to the assistant's office that he has important business to take care of that only a specialist in the field of Dalish history, culture, and restoration can help him with, but this is a downright lie, and because it's a lie there's a forbidden edge to the action that only makes Dorian want to do it more _._  If he had a therapist, he would definitely bring up this quality about himself as something that's probably not very healthy, even if it did land him in the first stable and mutually affectionate relationship he's had in... ever. 

Thinking about that gives him a brief pause in his step, one that he brushes past quickly.  _It's just a silly workplace crush. If it becomes something more than that, I'll talk to Bull. Do the healthy thing._

He arrives at the workroom his assistant tends to hole himself up in, and frowns - the lights are off.  _Has he gone home already?_

But no, he can faintly make out the shape of a small Dalish elf by the window, poring over an ancient text in the dim light of dusk.

"You're going to go blind reading like that," Dorian says, and flicks the lights on. 

The elf yelps and fumbles the book, dropping it onto the table in front of him. For a moment Dorian thinks he's startled him with his presence, until he sees the elf squinting and searching the table with his hands as if he really has gone blind.

" _Fuck_  that's bright- I mean, sorry Dr Pavus, I- can you see my glasses anywhere?"

Dorian, now absolutely baffled, steps into the room and quickly spots his assistant's glasses on the edge of the table, an inch away from falling to the floor. He quickly rescues them and tries to hand them to the elf, who's still squinting and even rubbing his eyes a little, so he takes one of his hands and places the tine of the spectacles in his palm. 

(He tries not to think about the elf's hand - smooth brown skin and long thin fingers, utterly terrible nails bitten to the quick - and quickly lets him go once he's sure of his grip on his glasses.)

" _Thank_  you," says the assistant with obvious feeling, sighing with relief as he places the glasses over his eyes. "Creators, that's better."

"Not a fan of light?" Dorian says. "I wasn't aware I'd hired a vampire for an assistant."

The elf laughs - giggles, really, even snorting a little - and Dorian's heart flips.

Mahanon Lavellan, a talented student who could easily run rings around many of the school's professors but seems far too nice to do so. A young Dalish elf with atrocious hair and enormous eyes and beautiful branching face tattoos who acts on the outside as ridiculously excited about old books as Dorian feels on the inside. 

Also, he won't stop calling Dorian "Dr Pavus" or "Professor Pavus" even though Dorian's asked him to call him by his first name more times than he can count, and that- fuck, that really does things for Dorian. He's read filthy terrible novels about this sort of thing. 

"Not a vampire, no, but- I mean, you know how elves have a tapetum lucidum?" Dorian blinks, and Mahanon grins. "Our eyes reflect light in the dark. Like cats."

"Oh," says Dorian. "Yes."

"Most elves have some level of night vision, but deep forest elves - like me - kind of take it a step further," Mahanon says. "Since our ancestors spent most of their lives under a thick tree canopy, we have  _really good_  night vision, and dim light vision, but the trade-off is we're kind of sensitive about light."

"Oh," Dorian says again, a little stupidly. "So I just blinded you, then."

"Not on purpose!" Mahanon says quickly. "I just- tend to prefer lower light, that's all. That's why I wear glasses."

Dorian tilts his head, regarding the glasses closely. "Those hardly look like sunglasses."

"Looks can be deceiving," Mahanon says, with a mischievous little grin that makes Dorian want to tackle the tiny elf in his chair and press his lips to it- fuck, damn it,  _just a workplace crush._ "I enchanted them - take a look."

He closes his eyes and takes the glasses off, holding them out to Dorian, and Dorian is briefly distracted by how stupidly long Mahanon's lashes are to do anything about it. He takes the glasses and puts them on. 

Instantly, the office is dimmed, without the odd tint that come with sunglasses. It affects the corners of Dorian's eyes too, the light that should be pouring in from the sides utterly muted.

"Impressive," Dorian says, meaning it, as he takes the glasses off and hands them back to Mahanon. "How long did the enchantment take you to craft?"

Dorian isn't sure that he's not imagining things, but he could swear Mahanon is blushing a little at the praise as he puts the glasses back on. "Not very long - honestly it's a fairly commonly-shared spell amongst elves, just had to search it up online."

"I see."

"That's the general idea, yeah," Mahanon says, and snickers. "Sorry- bad pun."

And this- well this just causes a very different kind of twinge, because that's the kind of dumb comment Bull would make, or would laugh at, and for an odd moment all Dorian can think of is how much Bull would like Mahanon. 

Dorian doesn't say this, of course. 

He smirks and says, "Don't let it happen again. No bad puns in the workplace."

"Of course," says Mahanon, trying to look deadly serious and failing utterly. "Sorry- what was it you needed?"

Fuck. Right. He came in here, blinded the assistant he has a thing for, and... for what purpose?

"Just checking in," he says, as blasé as he can manage. "I was wondering if the University of Val Royaux had sent you the scans from that dig in the Emerald Graves this afternoon like they said they would, those Orlesians can be terribly flaky."

"They did, shockingly," Mahanon says. "Did you want me to get started on those, professor?"

"No rush, just wanted to check," Dorian says, putting his hands up. "I'll leave you to your work. Er, should I turn the lights off?"

"That's alright, I'll have to work my way back through the corridors anyway in a bit - I've got work at 6." 

"More work?"

"Different work. Not nearly as fun." 

"Obviously." 

Mahanon smiles, and Dorian smiles back, before forcing himself to turn away. He almost makes it to the door before his inner demon takes over, and he turns back. 

"Mahanon?"

"Hmm?"

"I believe I've asked you to call me Dorian."

"Have you?" Mahanon blinks, adopting the look of wide-eyed innocence  _far_  too well. "Very sorry about that, professor. Won't happen again."

Dorian arches a brow, and leaves before he does or says anything he's likely to regret, and fuck. He's going to have to talk to Bull about this.

-

The Herald's Rest isn't Bull's usual bag.

He likes his pubs a little grittier, a little rougher, the kind of place where the wooden beams holding up the ceiling look somewhat fossilized with age. The Herald's Rest is new, very recently erected, and while it's definitely aiming for that old world charm it hasn't quite got the smell right yet, that perfume of dust and old spilled whiskey. 

Still, it's not bad for an off-duty merc and his private company to hang out between contracts, and the place has its perks - good drinks, decent music, close to home. 

And, if Bull is honest with himself, which he really tries to be now that he's out of the Qun - an old ache that still hurts from time to time - there's a perk that tends to work evening shifts from Tuesday to Saturday. A perk with big eyes and a  _great_  ass. 

Said perk arrives at the table with an impressive amount of drinks balanced on his tray, interrupting Skinner and Krem's debate over which knives have better balance, Antivan or Rivaini. 

"Sorry, please go on, I learn so much interesting stuff listening in on you lot," says the server, placing an enormous tankard of dark stout in front of Bull. "I thought you'd like this one - they mix chocolate in with the brew."

"Fuck yeah," says Bull, toasting the elf with an easy grin. "This is why you're the Boss, Lavellan. Always bringing us the good shit."

Lavellan shrugs, parcelling out the rest of the drinks amongst the Chargers. "You keep bringing me good tips, I'll keep bringing you good shit. Seems a fair trade."

"You're getting sassy," Skinner says, pausing to toss back her shot of something bright green that Bull suspects is absynthe and following with a sip from her glass of house red. "Remember when you first got here?"

"Couldn't get a word out," grunts Rocky. "Looked like you just wandered in from the forest."

"Had a leaf stuck in your hair and everything," says Krem.

"You're all terrible," Lavellan says, and though the light is far too dim in the pub for Bull to make it out, he's pretty sure the elf is blushing, and takes a nice little moment imagining what that might look like, and how far down that blush might go. "It was a  _windy day_. Do any of you want something to eat, or are you just going to sit there and make fun of me?"

"Both," say most of the Chargers assembled, and Lavellan throws his hands up in feigned exasperation.

He goes around the table, collecting orders and trading the usual banter with the Chargers, coming to Bull's side last.

"How's the stout?" Lavellan asks.

"Good shit," Bull says, and it is good shit. Damn good shit. "I'm having my usual."

"All the meat and potatoes this tiny mountaintop bar has to offer?"

"That's the one." 

Lavellan shakes his head, shoving his little notepad into his jeans pocket and tucking the empty tray under his arm. "Good thing I warned the kitchen you were coming." 

Bull smirks, and opens his mouth to say something else, when he's interrupted by a shout from a nearby table.

"Oi, _Rabbit!_ You've got other customers too, you know!"

Lavellan winces, his ears flicking back in clear annoyance. "Sorry, I have some lovely esteemed patrons to see to, apparently."

"Want me to loom over them?" Bull offers. "I've been told I've got a pretty intimidating loom. Or I could just beat the shit out of them."

"It's been a while since we've had a good bar fight," says Krem, cracking his knuckles.

"As flexible as Cabot is, I don't think he'd be best pleased about a bunch of mercs beating the shit out of some Orlesian trust fund shitheads," sighs Lavellan. "I think one of them might actually be an ex-classmate of mine. Anyway, I'll go send these off to the kitchen. Shout if you need anything."

Bull watches Lavellan go, appreciating the tight fit of his jeans.  _Fucking elves._  No matter what shape they're in, they always manage to have incredible asses. 

He turns back to the table to see his Chargers watching him, all with narrowed, far too discerning gazes. 

"Something you all wanna say to me?" Bull says casually, following with a long swig of his stout. 

They watch him a moment longer, then wisely return to their previous conversations. 

As if on cue, Bull feels his phone buzz in his pocket, and pulls it out to see a text from... Dorian, he's pretty sure. He told the damn mage that mixing technology with chaos magic was a fucking stupid idea. 

 

**From: 3u128913ehcorppa suon iuq egARo nu a y li...**

Are you home tonight? Before dawn, I mean?

 

Bull purses his lips a little, something resembling guilt catching up to him.  _Why? He hasn't done anything. He's fucking allowed to find other people fuckable._

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

yeah probably. maybe around 11? all good on your end? 

 

**From: fo m l a e r htnin eht**

Yes, long day, just curious. Say hello to the Chargers for me.

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

will do. also your phone is doing the thing again.

**From: 12D03O10O23M317U27P28O23N87U36S12A63L1L**

Fuck me, this always happens after a software update. I'll have to perform a brief exorcism on it when I get home.

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

probably a good idea

"Dorian says hi," Bull says to the table, stowing his phone. Most of the Chargers sort of wave, caught up in their conversations, arguments, and arm wrestling competition (Grim and Dalish have been at it for the last five minutes). Krem casts Bull another odd look, but doesn't say anything. 

"Fucking  _finally_ ," someone drawls at a nearby table. "You sure like to take your sweet time, don't you?"

Bull glances over with his one eye to see that Lavellan's made it to the table of "Orlesian trust fund shitheads," and yeah, the assessment is accurate - a bunch of human kids in their mid-twenties wearing expensive digs that they definitely didn't buy with their own hard-earned cash, splitting a bottle of the bar's best between them and barely bothering to glance up at Lavellan as he stands poised with his notepad, ears pressed flat back now as he clearly fights to wrestle his expression into something customer-friendly. 

"Apologies for the wait," he says blandly. "What can I get for you?"

"You know, my family owns a place in Tevinter," says one of the men - fucking boys, really, not even men - leaning forward with a slurred drawl that suggests he probably pre-gamed at one of the fancy penthouses nearby. "Really gorgeous country, Tevinter. They know how to do things right, there."

"Interesting," says Lavellan.

"Oh, I've been there," says one of the others. "Great view, great food, great  _service._ "

"Yeah, I've got about ten of you," says the first, gesturing to Lavellan. "And believe me, if they were as slow as you, they'd get more than just a talking to, if you catch my meaning. They know their place, there."

"How lucky for you," says Lavellan coolly. "But given that we're not in Tevinter, and you called me over to your table for what I'm assuming is a compelling reason-"

"Look at him using all the big words," says one of the others. "Really making good use of this place's affirmative action program, aren't you? Something to write home to all the forest rabbits about?"

"You gonna do something?" Krem murmurs to Bull, and Bull can practically feel the kid fuming beside him.

"Maybe," says Bull. "I wanna see how he plays it." 

"As you pointed out earlier, I have other customers," says Lavellan, his voice clipped. "So if you're quite finished-"

"Nah, I've got- I've got something I want to order," says the second to speak, grinning. "You know, I've never seen ears as big as yours, right? Fucking enormous, aren't they? I'll tip extra if you let me touch 'em."

"Oh, careful, I hear they're into that kind of thing," says the third, snickering.

Lavellan rolls his eyes and turns away, clearly done with the conversation. 

"Hey, I'm not finished with you-" says the first, grabbing Lavellan's wrist. The Orlesian recoils with a shocked yelp, hugging his hand to his chest. 

Lavellan shakes out his wrist, face carefully composed. "Everything alright,  _ser?_ "

"You- you did something!" snaps the Orlesian, not looking nearly as confident as he did moments before. "I can't feel my fucking hand!"

"There's a lot of static electricity in here," Lavellan says mildly. "Must be the wiring. I'll speak to Cabot for you. In the meantime, I'd highly suggest  _keeping your hands to yourself_  if you're planning on using them for anything."

"You're not allowed to do that," says one of the others, though he sounds a little uncertain. "It's- it's illegal to use magic as a weapon without just cause, we can report you-"

"Illegal, maybe," says Lavellan, leaning in close. "Also  _extremely hard to prove._  Now unless you want there to be a major incident involving the 'faulty wiring' in here, I suggest you order something, or drink your overpriced  _shemlen_  swill quietly, or get the fuck out. Pick one, and let me know." 

Lavellan walks away, leaving the Orlesians to mutter sourly amongst themselves, the one with the numb hand desperately trying to massage feeling back into it with a somewhat frantic expression. 

Bull grins at Lavellan when he next comes by their table, bringing the first round of chips and wings as appetizers and setting them carefully down on the table amongst the Chargers. "Zapping the customers? Someone's getting a little rebellious."

"I only zap the ones that piss me off," Lavellan says with a shrug, though he looks pretty fucking adorably pleased with himself. "Or the ones who skimp on tips." 

"Hey, you know me, Boss," Bull says. "I give  _real_  big tips."

"I bet you do," Lavellan murmurs, then seems to realize what he's said about a second after it's come out of his mouth, and fumbles with the basket of chips he's setting down. "Fuck me sideways. Um-" 

"At least let me buy you dinner first," Bull says, because- well, because he's  _him_ , and the opportunity is there, and watching Lavellan squirm and try to collect himself is fucking entertaining as shit.  _Blushing again, probably._

"Gueh," Lavellan says, or something to that effect, before he clears his throat, looking anywhere but at Bull. "L-let me know if you want me-  _need me._  Let me know if you need- okay."

He hurries away, nearly taking out another server as he escapes back to the kitchen. 

"Okay, fuck it, intervention time," says Krem, sounding utterly exasperated. "Chief, you've gotta talk to Dorian."

Bull nearly smacks Krem in the face with his horns as his head swings back around, eyes narrowed. " _What?_ "

Krem, recovering from his quick duck, straightens with a scowl. " _Dorian._  You know, the hot guy you live with? That one? I think you should tell him you've got a thing for the Boss, or tell the Boss you're not interested or otherwise occupied. This is stupid." 

"It's not like that," says Bull, even as his eye strays back to the kitchen. He's not really surprised to see Lavellan quickly glancing away, an embarrassed grin on his face as he types up the table's orders. 

"Bullshit," Krem says, punching his shoulder. "Literal  _Bull-_ shit. If you fuck with the guy who brings us free shots, we're gonna mutiny." 

"Mutiny?" says Skinner, just clueing in. "I'm in. Why?"

"If Bull doesn't shit or get off the pot about the Boss."

"Oh. Fuck yeah, Krem's right. It's getting fucking ridiculous."

"Hey, who's in charge, here?" Bull grumbles, taking a swig of his stout and ignoring the six dubious stares directed at him from around the table. 

It's not like he doesn't flirt with people. Fuck, it's not like he and Dorian every made this thing they have officially exclusive. 

But... he's pretty sure there's an unofficial understanding between them that feelings and wanting to fuck someone are very, very fucking different things. Things worth discussing. Fuck, things he wants to discuss, especially with a guy he loves as much as Dorian. 

If he's honest with himself, which he tries so hard to be, Lavellan isn't just a perk. He isn't just someone Bull wants to bend over a table (though that's a big goddamn part of it). 

He sighs, and takes another swig of stout, rolling that chocolate taste around his tongue.  _He's gotta talk to Dorian._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?? FoxNonny, updating a story??? Will wonders never cease!
> 
> Also tag on this chapter for some porn - not in depth porn for porn, more like background porn for feelings. I'm not super coherent right now.
> 
> Also also, tag on this chapter for Bull and Dorian basically being an old married couple, my heart for domestic Bull and Dorian.

Dorian is pouring his third glass of wine when the front door creaks open.

He fumbles the bottle like he's been caught in the midst of a heist - not for any real reason beyond nerves, pure nerves, and he has to remind himself that he hasn't done anything wrong. Even if he were in a strictly monogamous relationship with agreed-upon rules and boundaries, which he is most decidedly not, he hasn't crossed any lines beyond repair. He has nothing to fucking worry about.

And yet, given that a low thrum of constant anxiety is essentially his resting pulse, he worries.

By the time Bull enters the common area, the rogue drops of pinot noir have carefully been wiped up, and Dorian is carefully seated in his armchair by the fireplace, a magazine ( _Signals and Sigils_ , a techno-magic weekly) open in front of him and his wine glass held with careful grace in his free hand.

"Well, hello," Dorian says, offering Bull a slight smile.  

Bull's face is markedly difficult to read, which in itself is a nuance Dorian's only recently learned to recognize. Years as a top spy with the Qun trained Bull to layer lies with truths effortlessly; after witnessing Bull spin this kind of alternate reality to other people, selling stories Dorian knew to be false with such conviction that Dorian started to doubt his own sanity, he'd asked Bull just how in the fuck he managed to do it. 

Dorian expected Bull to refuse to share the knowledge, as any sane person with a vault of deadly secrets in their head might do, but Bull answered immediately, breezily. 

"A part of you has to be convinced that what you're saying is what actually happened," Bull said, and Dorian remembers that he was drinking a massive pink mug of hot cocoa at the time, looking almost cheerful as he described the psychological coding required to lie convincingly. "And that's the thing, you can't think of it as  _lying._  You're not telling a  _lie_ , yeah? A lie would be like, 'Sorry I'm late, a herd of druffalos stampeded across the highway and I had to round them all up individually before I could get back on my bike.'"

"So what would you say, then?" Dorian asked.

"I mean, if they don't notice me coming in late to begin with, no fucking point bringing attention to it, for one thing," Bull shrugged. "No reason to lie about stupid shit like that. People tend to believe you more if you're open and relatable. You distract with your mistakes, with your wild fucking stories, you give them so much information about you that if someone goes up to them and goes 'You know that guy killed seven people, yeah?' they'd just think, 'Nah, he already told me about the time he got his dick piercing stuck in a sex toy during a kink party, I feel like he'd probably would've copped to murder by now.'"

Dorian choked then, and also demanded to hear the story about the dick piercing, which rather proved Bull's point.

Still, Bull's skill for deception troubled him at times, which is part of why he wanted so badly to know how Bull did it. Dorian knew how to lie, in his own way - it was a matter of survival in Tevinter, where walls had eyes and ears and mouths with which to pass dangerous and embarrassing secrets along, and knowledge of such secrets was a lethal kind of currency. He lied in a way that was glossy, and slick - the way Bull lied, you wanted to believe whatever he was telling you, and that scared Dorian far more than the venomous coils of falsehoods that built up the society of his home country. No one believed anyone in Tevinter, you just picked and chose which stories best suited your agenda. 

Bull, you could believe. You wouldn't even think twice, because Bull was right - he was honest, and open... except when he wasn't.

Later, in bed - very much  _in bed_ , with Dorian's wrists trussed to Bull's horns, back to Bull's broad, tattooed chest, and Bull buried agonizingly deep inside him - Bull laid a gentle hand over Dorian's throat, and pressed his lips to Dorian's ear. "I don't like lying."

" _What?_ " Dorian sputtered, breathless and already close, already slipping into that blissful quiet good fucks with Bull could grant him, now utterly jarred back into reality. He shifted, his arms in slightly awkward positions with Bull's bent head, intent on giving Bull a firm talking-to about Maker-damned  _timing_ , but Bull just wrapped an arm around his midriff and moved his large hand up to grasp Dorian's chin firmly. 

"I want you to listen, because we've got a rule here, right?" Bull rocked into Dorian, and whatever Dorian's annoyance, he couldn't help the groan this pulled from him. "What's the rule, Dorian?"

"Honesty," Dorian gasped, whimpering as he was rewarded with another strong thrust. "Bastard."

"Good boy," Bull said, the cocksure grin far too apparent in his voice, and Dorian outright growled at him like a pissy cat.  _Damn bastard._ "You're worried I might by lying to you. Yeah?"

This- this was entirely unfair, was what it was, because of course Dorian worried. Any other time, any other place, he would laugh that worry off, deny it, because it was only  _part_  of him that worried, and no matter how large that part of him was, he could ignore it. The worry wasn't real if it wasn't felt with his whole heart, was it? 

Bull thrust again, slowly, and Dorian suddenly understood at least a small part of Bull's thesis on the nature of dishonesty. 

"Yes," Dorian said, reluctantly, and quietly.

"Good," Bull praised again, as if Dorian hadn't just essentially confessed his lack of trust, his lack of faith in Bull, as if he'd said something kind or flattering instead. No, as if he'd said something  _right._  "That's good. So here's what I'm gonna tell you - I don't like lying, I don't do it for fun." He paused. "I mean, okay, I like fucking with people. But not with people who don't deserve it. Do you understand?"

Dorian took a moment to process the concept, simple though it was, and he could begrudgingly appreciate Bull's approach; fucking these assurances deep into Dorian, taking advantage of the safety of the space to help Dorian internalize his words.

_Bull wouldn't lie to me for his own enjoyment. He prefers honesty. He revels in it, sometimes._  This last thought was followed by an absurd little smile.  _Like the dick piercing story. Yes, he enjoyed sharing that, didn't he?_

His smile quickly disappeared as he remembered Bull's earlier words. 

"Would you tell me how many people you've killed, if I asked?" Dorian said, before he could think the words through. 

Bull didn't flinch, but he was quiet for a beat longer than Dorian's nerves could take, and he was already halfway through preparing a suitable apology when Bull said, "If you asked, and if you really wanted to know."

He didn't. And Bull knew he didn't. At least, not right now.

"I understand," Dorian said, nearly voiceless.

Bull pressed his lips to Dorian's hair, far more comforting than sensual, and continued. "I'll tell you one more thing, and then you won't have to think anymore. Alright?"

_When do I not think?_ Dorian might have asked, if Bull hadn't proved time and time again his incredible ability to drive every last stupid, overwrought thought from Dorian's head.

"Alright," he echoed instead.

Bull smoothed his rough palm over Dorian's chest and stomach, and Dorian arched into his touch, already feeling himself slip back under Bull's command, under that dizzying, delicious spell. 

"I'm actually shit at lying to people I like, people I care about," Bull murmured, and this time he sounded... not vulnerable, exactly. If he'd sounded vulnerable, it would have felt false, as if he were playing at having a conscience that could govern his actions and morals. But there was a very slight, nearly imperceptible discomfort to his words. "By Ben Hassrath standards, anyway. After a while, you might start to clock where the seams in the mask are, if I've got one on. Do you understand?"

"Not right now," Dorian said, resting his head back against Bull's chest. "But perhaps someday."

Bull nodded, Dorian's arms raising and lowering with the movement like a marionette. "You want me to fuck you now?"

"Want you to fuck me  _always_ ," Dorian muttered, and Bull laughed, then proceeded to fuck him with such boundless ferocity that Dorian called in sick the next morning so he could spend more time in bed recovering with the ex-Ben Hassrath spy he'd somehow fallen in love with.

It took some careful watching, far too many hours spent studying Bull's face, every scar and cragged line, but Dorian was beginning to get a sense of what Bull had meant that night about seams. Bull never lied to him, but sometimes, when the fog rolled in or a Qunari delegate showed up at Skyhold, there was something a little more deliberate about his words, the way he smiled and laughed. Something mechanic, and calculated.

There is an edge of that in Bull's expression tonight. Just an edge. Nothing that might suggest there's something  _wrong_ , exactly. Just that there is  _something._

"The Chargers say hi," Bull says, passing behind Dorian's chair on the way to the kitchen and pausing a moment to ruffle his hair. "Good day?"

"Fuck off, and yes, in point of fact," Dorian scowls, putting aside his wine to set about fixing his hair. Bull chortles as he slips behind the counter, setting a small saucepan on the stove. "Very productive. Even the Orlesians met their deadlines, for once."

"Now there's something," Bull says, pulling milk and heavy cream from the fridge. "Want some?"

"Make it boozy," Dorian says, and Bull adds a bottle of cream liqueur to the gathering of ingredients. "What about yourself?"

"You know me, I like watching my soaps with my feet up on the chaise lounge, popping bonbons," Bull says, combining the milk, cream, and a healthy amount of cream liqueur in the pan, whisking for a moment before lighting the flame under the element. "Nothing too exciting. Hey, actually, speaking of Orlesians, how many students do you have that might fall under the description of 'trust fund shitheads?'"

Dorian's lip curls. "Far too many for my liking. Unfortunately, their rich mommies and daddies are partially to thank for my salary. Why?"

"Had a run-in at the Herald," Bull says, sounding distinctly unimpressed, a tone that is further punctuated by the alarmingly large knife he now carries in his right hand. This comes down on a slab of high-caliber dark chocolate set on a cutting board in front of him, which he sets to chopping with quick, practised movements. "I thought they liked that bougie on-campus club - what was it?"

"The Throne Room," Dorian says, echoing Bull's distaste. "They tend to prefer it, yes - there's a VIP Lounge and everything. They must have been searching for some college town flavour." 

"Must've been," Bull says, shaking his head. "They almost got their asses kicked tonight."

"You had a chance to thrash a privileged Orlesian shithead and turned aside? You've clearly been replaced with an imposter." 

"Wasn't my fight," Bull shrugs, and turns to scrape the chopped chocolate into the pan. Dorian watches, and scowls.

"How many times-?  _Dull_  side of the blade, you heathen, scrape with the dull side!"

"I'm the one who sharpens 'em,  _nanny_." 

"You're determined to give me early greys." 

"Pretty sure thirty-two isn't early for grey hairs-"

"I'm not thirty-two, I'm twenty-eight indefinitely, we agreed upon that years ago and I won't stand for such slander," Dorian says loftily. 

"Sure," Bull says, and though his back is turned Dorian can  _hear_  his fucking grin.

Minutes later, Bull returns to the living room with two generous mugs of hot cocoa, a respectable smattering of marshmallows decorating the top of Dorian's compared to the terrifying mountain of guimauves rising from Bull's cup. 

The hot cocoa makes Dorian think again back to that conversation, Bull's feelings on lies and honesty and the ways they all mix together, and the ways people lie to themselves. 

_I should have told him sooner_ , Dorian thinks, wrapping his hands around the warm mug and pulling the heat into himself automatically to avoid scalding his mouth or hands, an easy magic performed since his first days learning spellcraft.  _A part of me has known for- fuck, maybe weeks, how I've felt about Mahanon, hasn't it? How long have I been shoving the truth aside?_  

"What's on your mind, _kadan_?" Bull asks gently, as if reading Dorian's thoughts written clear across his face - which, in all honesty, isn't too far from the truth. Dorian's never been able to hide his mind from Bull. He isn't even surprised by Bull's question, though the endearment at the end causes his heart to twinge a little.

"Ah," Dorian says, a placeholder sound as he gathers his rapidly unspooling threads of thought. He sips his hot cocoa, appreciating the slight burn of alcohol as the smooth chocolate slips over his tongue.  _Perfect, as usual._  He swallows. "I... thought we might talk. About- about us, I suppose."

Bull doesn't even blink. "Okay."

Dorian braces the mug between his knees, quickly swiping the back of his hand over his face because he'll be damned if he's going to try to have this conversation with marshmallow stuck in his moustache. "Right. Yes. I- we've never talked about, um, exclusivity, regarding what we have together, have we?"

Dorian's heart plummets to the carpet as Bull's face takes on a pleasantness that seems far too relaxed, far too sincere, the closest thing to looking off-guard or startled that Bull seems willing to show him right now. 

_Bull could choose to look surprised, but he's not. His mask is up._   _Fuck, fuck..._

"I guess we haven't," Bull says, picking a marshmallow off the top of his pile and popping it into his mouth with casual ease, and Dorian almost wishes he were fooled. "You have some thoughts on it?"

"Er, you might say that," Dorian says, gripping his mug tightly. "I- Bull, I really do hope you know how I feel about you, and how much- how much what we have here means to me."

"Yeah," Bull says, looking up at Dorian, his one eye suddenly soft, his face still utterly unreadable (and yet, far too easy to read at the same time). "I do."

Dorian bites his lip, and stares down into his cup. "I just want to make that clear, that- that my priority is to maintain... this. You're my priority." Bull is silent, so Dorian rushes through to his next point. "I have, however, um- recently there's been... fuck. Fuck! I have- I think I have feelings for my Maker-damned research assistant, shit."

Dorian doesn't look up, or breathe, during the ensuing silence. He runs through a million possible responses from Bull in the drawn-out seconds after he falls quiet, the disappointment, the confusion, perhaps even anger or hurt. 

What he doesn't expect, is for the fucking brute to start  _laughing._

Dorian jerks his head up sharply, gaping at the man sitting opposite him and absolutely  _cackling_ with inexplicable mirth. "It's not fucking  _funny_ , Bull!"

"Holy shit, Dorian, I was gonna have a fucking coronary- this is fucking  _hilarious_ ," Bull laughs, and oddly Dorian can hear something like relief mingled in with the words. "I- fuck, I thought- okay, well, let's talk about this. Are these like, 'I wanna fuck this guy' feelings, or like,  _feelings-_ feelings?"

"You sound like one of my boarding school classmates," Dorian scowls, still utterly bewildered by Bull's reaction. "'Oh, but is it "like," or is it " _like_ -like"?'"

"Well?"

"It's- he's- it's not just about sex, I don't think," Dorian says, feeling his face start to burn. "If it was just that, I honestly wouldn't care, I'm more than satisfied with my sex life-"

"Damn straight."

"-it's other things," Dorian says. "Things I... I think I'd like to pursue. But not at the cost of what we have."

Bull takes a long, long sip of his cocoa, somehow managing to find the drink under all the marshmallows, while Dorian watches helplessly, desperate for a response. 

Bull swallows. "So there's this server at the Herald-"

" _What?_ "

"Seriously, I thought the Chargers had texted you or something-"

"What, stop, what server, what are you saying to me right now?"

"I'm saying, there's this server that I've been flirting with," Bull says, meeting Dorian's wide-eyed stare. "You know me, that's kinda how I talk to people, but the Chargers've pointed out that I might have been flirting a bit more than I usually do."

Dorian, quite honestly, has no fucking clue how to react to this information. 

There's a part of him that thinks he should be jealous, but it's a small part, and one that seems far more prescribed than genuine, though the slight sting is still there. There's an absolutely delirious part of him that almost feels a little cheated of his grand announcement - this was to be  _his_  awkward relationship-testing fuckery after all, and here Bull has gone and stolen the originality of the concept. Most of him, however, is just fucking  _relieved._  

And curious. Incredibly curious.

"So," Dorian says slowly, without a trace of irony. "Is it 'like,' or is it ' _like-_ like'?"

-

They spend the next half-hour or so ironing out specifics, talking about  _feelings_ , and it's utterly exhausting. They don't go into detail about their respective interests, as there seems very little point in doing so - not here, and not right now. The closest they come to discussing Mahanon and whoever Bull's server is amounts to the following exchange:

"He's an elf-"

"Yeah, same-"

"His ass-"

"Fucking  _right?_ "

And that's all they say on the matter. 

In the end, it feels far less like admitting some kind of guilt, than it does talking about something exciting and close to the heart with a good friend. A lover. A  _partner._

"You gonna talk to him tomorrow, then?" Bull asks later, Dorian curled in close to his side and his head resting on Bull's chest. 

"Should I?"

"I think so, yeah. No point in wasting time."

"I suppose." Dorian traces one of Bull's tattoos with his fingertip thoughtfully. "You?"

"Yeah, probably," Bull says. "Might as well get a measure of the situation, you know? He might not be into the whole polyamory thing."

"Maker, I didn't even think of that," Dorian murmurs, frowning. He can't remember if he's ever discussed Bull around Mahanon... he's not exactly kept his home life a secret from the university in general, and Bull has even accompanied him to a few on-campus events, but even so- "I'm a bit of an idiot, aren't I?"

"Nah, you're too smart for that," Bull says, patting Dorian on the ass in an oddly comforting gesture. "We'll keep each other updated on how things turn out."

"Communication," Dorian says. "I've heard it's the key to any successful relationship."

"Trust," Bull adds, "and honesty. I'm really glad you talked to me,  _kadan_."

" _Amatus_ ," Dorian responds quietly, slipping a leg over Bull's thighs to straddle him. He braces his hands on either side of Bull's neck, melting under the fondness of Bull's gaze as he leans in to press his lips to Bull's smiling mouth. 

And as Bull pulls him in close and deepens the kiss to something promising, something far more heated, Dorian feels that odd twinge of jealousy again - not, he realizes suddenly, for himself, but for Mahanon. 

_Mahanon would really like Bull_ , Dorian thinks.  _And Bull would adore Mahanon._

It's an oddly forceful thought, one that he tries, in fairness, to shove aside, even as he finds himself thinking - a little unkindly, he admits - that whoever this elf server is, Bull would probably like Mahanon  _more_ , if the two were ever to meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon's about to have a really fucking confusing day. 
> 
> Thank you to absolutely everyone who's read and commented on this story so far!! Sorry I haven't been very active on Tumblr with responses and general interaction recently, but believe me, I love the crap out of all of you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH YES THERE'S MORE
> 
> On the Foxnonny "List of things I should be doing but I'm getting this chapter done instead," we have:
> 
> \- finishing memorizing my two arias for the opera audition T O M O R R O W literally in LESS THAN 12 HOURS  
> \- editing the entire fucking newspaper for my deadline T O M O R R O W also literally in LESS THAN 12 HOURS  
> \- sleeping???? maybe????
> 
> BUT NO
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy the madness, I love these goobers.
> 
> (Also any and all Dalish that shows up in this is as always a mix of researched game Elvish language and filling in with badly translated Irish for any words there is no Elvish translation for available. Call it a dialect.)

Dorian just manages to keep from whistling outright as he wends his way through the halls of the archive building towards Mahanon's workroom... but only just.

There was a brief moment last night, as he lay curled up against Bull's side, both of them spent and sated and falling into an easy sleep, where Dorian had cynically wondered whether his attraction to Mahanon might fade, now that he'd been given "permission" of sorts. Bull had called him out more than once on his damn-near pathological need to rebel, though hardly ever as a negative; it often came up in their scenes, Bull teasing him over his love of the forbidden, even as he showed Dorian just how creatively taboo one could be. 

It would be just like Dorian, after all, to find a healthy path towards a positive choice utterly dull, wouldn't it?

But no, even now with Bull's full blessing and encouragement, that stirring hasn't faded, nor has his appreciation for Mahanon's sweet face (and his stupidly phenomenal ass. Elves.)

He's a little surprised to hear Mahanon's voice before he reaches the room, though he can't make out a word the elf is saying. A few steps closer, and he figures out why.

" _Tel- tel, Alaíne, tel-_ _ma tel'dirthen mir máthair!_   _Mythal'enaste, ir tel'enfenim shemlen, ir tel'gá halani._ " A pause, then Mahanon laughs, and it's clear whoever he's speaking to is not in the room with him. "Right, that'll solve everything.  _Ma nuvenin._   _Aie_ ,  _melana,_  I should get back to work. Yes-  _ir'gaelltanas ir'dareth, lethallan. Dirth'en aneth ara an'Cullen_ -" this breaks into what sounds suspiciously like a snicker. "Oh, like you would.  _Dareth shiral._ "

Dorian recognizes the last bit as a farewell, at the very least. He takes this opportunity to knock on the door, which is already partially ajar and swings open easily at the touch of his hand.

Mahanon looks up from his phone, smiling broadly. "Dr Pavus!" The grin slips. "Um, sorry- I promise I'm not just sitting here on my phone, my cousin can be- she's a bit of a force of nature."

Dorian holds up his hands. "Mahanon, this is a self-directed research position. You're more than allowed to take breaks. Everything alright?"

At this, Mahanon sighs, placing his phone on the table aside a stack of books and a laptop that looks as though it's seen better centuries, the cord wrapped up in fraying electrical tape with wires poking through the rubber casing. Dorian has a moment of panic about this and the potential fire hazard it presents, but manages to focus his attention back on the elf in front of him, and not his terrible equipment. 

"Everything's  _fine_ ," Mahanon says, as though trying to convince Dorian to see his side in an argument they aren't currently having. "Creators, I just- had a bit of a night at my other job, and I happened to mention it to Alaine, but she gets... protective, I think. Us Dalish get a little edgy about our registered diaspora; the Keepers and the Elders worry the young'uns will run off and never return, forsake the heritage, that sort of thing."

"Is that what your cousin is worried about?" Dorian asks, a little fascinated; he has a loose understanding of Dalish history, but the modern lived experience is an utterly unknown territory to him.

"Alaine? Oh fuck no- um, sorry," Mahanon amends, a little sheepishly. "No, she's the last one to worry about anyone losing touch - she hasn't been back to the clan in years, couldn't wait to get out and see the world, and it looks like she's set to marry a human, so..." Mahanon shrugs. "Where we are- I mean, there's a lot of history here, but the closest clan isn't very close at all, and- well, sometimes it's not the safest thing in the world, being an elf on your own."

Dorian frowns deeply at this. "Did something happen that made you feel unsafe?"

"No, not at all!" Mahanon protests quickly, shaking his head. "Like I said, this is Alaine just being- well, just being an overprotective big cousin, is all. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, just typical  _shemlen_  bullshit, you know how humans can-" Mahanon cuts off abruptly, flushing deeply. " _Fenhedis._  That's awkward."

A tiny, ugly part of Dorian prickles in annoyance, a part that Dorian very quickly stomps on, recognizing it as a holdover from his Tevinter upbringing. He instead tries to imagine what Mahanon's describing - being virtually alone, far from support, and surrounded by-

 _Orlesian trust fund shitheads_ , is the phrase that comes to mind, and Dorian remembers Bull's recounting of his own run-in the night before. No, the world is still far from a friendly place for non-humans in human lands. 

"Believe me, my partner would agree with you," Dorian says softly. "I know it's hardly helpful, but I am sorry."

"It's- thank you," Mahanon says, fiddling with his glasses. He goes still suddenly, as if Dorian's words are really only just sinking in. "Oh.  _Oh._  Um. Partner?"

"Hm? Oh, yes," Dorian says. "I don't believe I've mentioned him- he's qunari, so he's fairly well-acquainted with, um, how humans can be."

"Right," Mahanon says, though he doesn't seem to be entirely listening, and if anything his blush deepens. "I- Creators." He laughs, a hand coming to his forehead. "I... I think I might owe you an apology, Dorian."

"Oh?" Dorian closes the distance between them, taking a seat on the edge of Mahanon's worktable. "It's 'Dorian' now, is it?"

"I- um, I've sort of been-" Mahanon swallows, looking utterly mortified, his ears drooping low. "Well, to be quite frank, I've been sort of throwing myself at you for the past month or so, and uh- I mean for one thing,  _utterly_  unprofessional, at work, and um- and you're occupied, so that's- what I'm trying to say is I'm a massive idiot, that's all. Now if that's all clear and likely far too personal, I'd greatly appreciate it if you could maybe leave me here to die."

With this, Mahanon pushes his laptop forward, and plants his face into the table, glasses and all.

It's out of pure, delighted sadism that Dorian allows Mahanon to languish there for a few long seconds, before he lays a hand on Mahanon's shoulder. "I would be very put out if you were to die, you know."

"I think it's best for all involved," Mahanon mutters into the table.

"For one thing, I'd need to find another research assistant who speaks three dialects of Elvhen, and that would be  _terribly_  dull work for me."

"I'll leave a number for a replacement in my will."

"For another, I may be 'occupied,' as you say, but I'm not exactly unavailable."

Mahanon lifts his head at this, eyes wide. Even his ears perk up. "Pardon?"

"I had a... conversation with my partner last night," Dorian says gently, clasping his hands together. "I sort of realized that I might have been shamelessly flirting with one of my research assistants, for the past while."

"Which one?" Mahanon says blankly, then blinks. "Wait.  _Oh._ "

"'Oh' indeed." Dorian clears his throat. "As you said, utterly unprofessional-"

"No! I mean- I mean you're the boss, aren't you?" Mahanon smiles, tilting his head. "I'm pretty sure you get to make the rules."

"Perhaps," says Dorian, echoing Mahanon's grin. "My partner and I had a very good conversation all and all, and we've decided that we love each other very much, and that keeping things... open, so to speak, is hardly incongruous with that dedication to one another."

"I- I see," says Mahanon. "So what you're saying is...?"

"I might be wondering if you'd like to join me for coffee on Saturday afternoon. It would be nice to get to know you outside of the university, research and all. No pressure, of course."

"That- that would be really- yes, I'd like that," says Mahanon, large eyes very bright behind his glasses, grinning ear to pointed ear. "I'd like that a lot, professor."

-

 

**From: 38889theS3al1sbr0k333n62**

Success on my end. Will you be seeing your server tonight?

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

probably. congrats on your research assistant kadan. 

 

**From: d00mup0nALL3498234th3w0rld2**

I really do think you'd like him, honestly. If things don't work out with your server, I'd be happy to introduce you.

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

for a guy who gets all pissy when people touch his fancy cheese, you've gotten pretty enthusiastic about this whole "sharing" thing, huh

 

**From: 0000000000000000000000000**

That was an award-winning Halamshiral Camembert, and you ate the WHOLE WHEEL. WITHOUT ME. My rage was justified and I stand behind it.

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

sure sure. also hey you might have been successful seducing your underling or whatever but that exorcism you were gonna perform on your phone? not so much

 

**From: la34234lumi3r33tdIsparu2343V3r**

Fasta fucking vass.

 

- 

Lavellan is in an adorably good mood when the Chargers take their seats at their usual table that night. There's a little bounce in his step as he passes round the menus, a lilt in his voice as he runs through the specials.

"Had a good day, Boss?" Bull asks, as Lavellan sets down a pint of some pitch-black brew in front of him. 

"You could say that," Lavellan says, though the grin on his face belies the careless tone. "This one's a bitter, by the way, but it's got some coffee notes in it- let me know how it is. Cabot's been experimenting. If it's shit I'll replace it for you."

"Sure," says Bull. A chorus of raucous laughter sounds from a nearby booth, and Bull frowns a bit. "Those Orlesians are back for more, huh?"

Lavellan's cheer doesn't slip in the slightest. He shrugs. "They've been quiet tonight, and honestly, they can fuck themselves for all I care. Just the usual  _shem_  bullshit, you know?"

"Oh, I know," Bull says, taking a long swallow of his brew. "Humans, am I right?"

"Fuck, yes," Lavellan says with feeling, then amends, "Well- I guess sometimes they can be alright."

"Once in a blue moon," Bull says, thinking of Dorian. He shakes his head. "Anyway. Wouldn't want to distract you from your work."

"Please don't ever refrain from distracting me," Lavellan says. "You make the nights here far more interesting than they have any right to be."

"Oh? A fan of interesting nights, are we?" It's an easy fucking shot, but Bull feels no shame in taking it, and it works - Lavellan even goes so far as to hide his smile behind a menu, like an Orlesian lady behind a fan. "Happy to oblige, if you don't mind being... distracted."

"You're  _terrible_ ," Lavellan says, sounding utterly delighted. "I'm leaving, before I get-"

"Distracted?"

"Fuck off." 

Lavellan turns on his heel and hurries off towards the bar, though Bull can hear his soft laughter even over the sounds of the busy pub.

He turns back to the table to see all of his Chargers staring at him with outright mutinous expressions.

" _Chief_ -" Krem starts but Bull cuts him off.

" _I talked to Dorian_ ," Bull says, folding his arms. "This is 500% free-range, organic,  _ethical_  flirting. Now will the group of you collectively get the fuck off my dick?"

There's some grumbling, but the Chargers return to their drinks, seeming at least somewhat appeased. 

"You gonna make an honest elf of him?" Krem asks Bull quietly, nudging him under the table with his foot. "Or are you all talk?"

Bull snorts. "Kid, when in all the time that you've known me have I  _ever_  been all talk?"

"Alright, just don't wait too long, yeah?" Krem says, talking a long swig of his ale. "Boss looks like he's gonna spontaneously combust if you keep flirting with him like that. And he's a mage, so I mean, he could."

Bull shudders. He has lived experience with the spontaneous combustion of sexually-frustrated mages, after all. "Fair fucking point."

He keeps a weather eye out throughout the night for an opportunity to talk to Lavellan, clocking the elf's movements throughout his section of the pub. He also lets his attention wander over to the Orlesian kids from time to time - as Lavellan had assured him, they do seem quieter tonight, but Bull doesn't get the feeling that it's a good kind of quiet. They seem to be tracking Lavellan too, snickering to themselves behind their many glasses of wine. It's a relief when they finally pay up and leave - predictably paying in cash and leaving nothing behind on their final receipts as a tip.

Bull relaxes a bit, until he watches Lavellan sweep by the empty table and pick up the receipt left for him, and for the first time that night, his cheery demeanour slips. His eyes narrow, glinting in the low light as he examines the small slip of paper, mouth thinning. After a moment, he rolls his eyes and crumples the receipt in his fist, shoving it into the pocket of his apron and setting off back towards the bar with the Orlesians' empty glasses. 

"One sec," Bull murmurs, and gets to his feet, following Lavellan up to the bar.

Lavellan is unloading his tray and setting the wine glasses down behind the bar with a bit more force than might be advisable for delicate wine glasses when Bull approaches, leaning over the counter between them. Lavellan glances up, visible irritation giving way to an easy smile. 

"Can I get you something?" he asks. "Sorry, I hope I haven't been neglecting you all-"

"Nah, believe me, we'll get nice and rowdy if we ever feel neglected," Bull says. "I was just wondering what those shitheads left for you. You didn't seem too happy about it."

"I- oh." Lavellan's ears flick, and he quickly returns to his task, futzing about with the wine glasses. "It's honestly nothing."

"Can I see?"

Lavellan cringes a bit, but digs into his apron and pulls out the receipt, passing it across the counter. "Like I said, it's really nothing..."

Bull unfolds the receipt and frowns. On the tip line is a crude drawing of a sunburst symbol, in the style of the pre-Reformation Andrastian faith. It might have been a religious symbol once, but these days, it's most associated with the outlawed practice of the Rite of Tranquility, and all the old prejudices and social abuses the Chantry once proudly represented.

A hate symbol, essentially. One against mages, and elves, given how many Dalish were killed during one of the many Exalted Marches, back in the day.

"Classy," Bull says, and rips the receipt into a few pieces for good measure. 

"I thought so," Lavellan says airily. "Imagine being so boring as a person that you're threatened by the mere  _existence_ of a Dalish mage bringing you drinks. I'm not even all that threatening."

"If you ever want back up, I'd be happy to help you kick some Orlesian ass," Bull says. 

"Hardly worth it, but thanks," Lavellan says. "People can just be a bit stupid about magic, really."

"I hear that," Bull says, nodding. "Believe me, my partner's gone on more than a few rants about it himself."

"Your- huh," Lavellan says, placing the last wineglass on the counter and frowning. "Sorry, do you ever just have a weird- I think it's called déjà vu?" Bull blinks at Lavellan, who shakes his head. "Never mind, go on, just- I didn't know you had a partner, actually. You don't seem the type."

"Oh? What type do I seem like?"

Lavellan finds his smile again, looking up at Bull through his long lashes and even swatting his arm with a tea towel. "The type who flirts shamelessly with poor, defenceless elves, is what."

"Not exactly defenceless. You're a scary little mage, remember?"

"You'd best believe it," Lavellan says, and his grin broadens to reveal sharp canines. Bull approves. "At any rate, your partner's a lucky man."

"You think so?" 

"I think you're perfectly aware of what I think."

"Maybe, but maybe I want to hear what you think."

"Well, that's not fair at all, is it?" Lavellan slings the tea towel over his shoulder and folds his arms, looking up at Bull with his sharp chin obstinately squared. "You get to hear all about the little Dalish elf and his big stupid attraction to you, and I get to go home and write in my diary about how sad it all is that the big stupidly attractive qunari is already taken."

"You have a diary?"

"I might have a diary."

"Well, that's fucking adorable to know."

"Fuck  _off._ "

Lavellan rounds the edge of the counter, clearly intending to set off to another part of the pub. Bull catches his arm.

"You didn't ask what I think," Bull says, and fuck, it's really impossible not to admire how fucking  _big_  his hand looks around Lavellan's bicep. Judging by the way Lavellan's breath catches and he steps back into Bull's space, it's clear the elf isn't exactly unaffected by Bull's touch.

"Should I have?" Lavellan asks, looking up at Bull, and Bull's pretty sure this is the closest they've been, standing. The top of Lavellan's head - wild hair included - doesn't even reach Bull's collarbone. The Ben Hassrath training is coming in fucking handy; Bull doesn't miss the way Lavellan's pupils blow wide as he seems to take in the difference in size between them, the way the elf leans in closer in a way that could be mistaken for a happenstance of balance, if you weren't paying attention.

"Do you want to know?"

"I'm certainly curious." 

"I think you shouldn't assume that 'partner' means 'exclusive,'" says Bull, giving Lavellan's arm a gentle squeeze. "And that maybe if I'm shamelessly flirting with a defenceless elf, it's 'cause I  _mean_  it."

Lavellan gapes at him for a moment longer than Bull was really anticipating, then says, "Is there something in the fucking watertoday?"

Bull blinks. "Eh?"

"I- I mean I'm- I'm fucking thrilled, quite frankly, but I- what the shit?" Lavellan puts a hand to his hair, and Bull even sees little sparks weaving their way through the strands, causing the curls to lift into further disarray. "I'm- Creators. Wow. Um-"

"You okay?"

"I'm fucking great. Also I- I mean if it wasn't already blindly obvious I'm- I mean it too." Lavellan grins, seeming to collect himself a bit. "Flirting with a defenceless qunari, and all."

"Well that's a relief," Bull says, releasing Lavellan's arm but letting his hand trail down over Lavellan's skin as he does, enjoying the little shiver this elicits from the elf in response. "Nice to know you weren't just acting all sweet because you wanted a big tip."

"I think we've established that I'm hoping for more than just the tip," Lavellan says, and there's a little purr in his voice that makes Bull fucking grin. 

" _Lavellan!_ Table five!"

Lavellan startles and clears his throat, stepping back from Bull. "Sorry, Cabot, I'm on it!" Quieter, he says to Bull, "Look at that, you _did_ go and distract me, didn't you?"

"Let me make it up to you," Bull says, cheerily unrepentant. "Saturday night, maybe? We're heading to the Singing Maiden, down in Haven."

"I know it," Lavellan says. "By some fucking miracle, I've got the night off. I'm in."

"Nice," says Bull. "I'm looking forward to seeing you out of that apron."

Lavellan opens his mouth, clearly ready with some kind of spicy comeback to that, but another bark of his name from Cabot cuts him off. 

" _Distracting_ ," Lavellan mutters again, smiling. He reaches forward and gives Bull's wrist a little squeeze, then hurries off, presumably to look after the ostensibly neglected table five. 

 _Hate to see him leave_ , Bull thinks, a slow grin lighting up his scarred face as Lavellan bends to retrieve a discarded napkin from the floor.  _But it sure is nice to watch him go._

-

 

**To: The Brute**

Success?

 

**From: The Brute**

success. good day all around, I think. celebrate when I get home?

 

**To: The Brute**

I'm going to ignore how odd it is that we'll be celebrating our mutual successes in seducing other people, and decant the good piquette. 

 

**From: The Brute**

you love it.

 

**To: The Brute**

Maybe a bit, at that. 

 

**From: The Brute**

speaking of, I think you'd like my elf. he's a sassy little guy. likes zapping shitheads if they get uppity. 

 

**To: The Brute**

Of course you'd be into that. No, I'm quite happy with my elf, thanks ever so - very quiet and sweet. I strongly suspect he likes books more than people.

 

**From: The Brute**

no wonder you like him, you've got some pretty strong commonalities there.

 

**To: The Brute**

And a quick-talking elf happy to enact violence on hapless shitheads doesn't sound at all familiar to you, personality-wise?  
  


**From: The Brute**

hardly hapless, and I'm not an elf. anyway, for real, maybe once we've got our heads on straight and our elves in a row, you might wanna meet this guy. I feel like you'd get along.

 

**To: The Brute**

Now who's feeling generous? Sharing, and all that?

 

**From: The Brute**

yeah, sure

 

**From: The Brute**

by the way during this conversation your phone has called me like four times and whenever I pick up I just hear some freaky chanting shit and static on the other end, could you maybe make it not do that? it's making me edgy.

 

**To: The Brute**

I might need a new phone.

 

**From: The Brute**

ya fuckin think??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I foresee a future where the sunburst symbol is seen as a hate symbol because of the bullshit it represents?
> 
> .....YEP.
> 
> One day I might go into detail about post-Reformation Andrastian faith but NOT TODAY.
> 
> Also also, Mahanon's laptop cable situation is based on my own. I'll take pictures if need be. I'm a poor college student and my cable reflects my lifestyle astutely.
> 
> I hope this update was fun and worth the wait!! Thank you so much for liking these idiots as much as I do!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian and Bull go on some dates, and a back alley sees a little action. Tags on the chapter for discussions of racism and homophobia, and for a little smut at the end.
> 
> ALSO HEY WE'RE BACK GUYS DAMN IT ONLY TOOK LIKE FOUR MONTHS. 
> 
> This chapter was made possible by donations to my ko-fi account - as my regular job doesn't go back into full-time employment until September, things are a bit tight right now. If you'd like to support this and other works, please consider donating (only if you're able!) at https://ko-fi.com/foxnonny. 
> 
> You can also commission me for stuff! I have a page for that here: http://foxnonny.tumblr.com/post/174161825563/hey-everyone-im-opening-commissions-also-i-have
> 
> Otherwise, believe me, your comments and views and kudos are ABSOLUTELY GOLD to me, and I want to thank everyone for their patience on this fic in particular <3 I hope to have the next chapter out much sooner!

**To: The 'Vint (Not K)**

big date today, huh?

 

**From: 432elixe234**

It's coffee. There's nothing "big" about coffee.

 

**To: The 'Vint (Not K)**

not with that attitude. need some help coming up with conversation topics? 

 

**From: 534worros765**

Thank you, I think I'll be just fine. Also, I'm not sure if you noticed, but I left out some possible outfit choices for your "big date" tonight.

 

**To: The 'Vint (Not K)**

saw that, thanks kadan

 

**From: 576riapsed567**

Do let me know if you plan to wear any of the outfits carefully coordinated for you by your loving partner.

 

**To: The 'Vint (Not K)**

uh huh

 

**From: 354ssendaslanrete756**

Because I know you, and I know you'll want to wear those big yellow striped circus tent things that you won't let me burn, and I'm trying to save your elf's eyes. 

 

**To: The 'Vint (Not K)**

he does have pretty eyes. hey, your phone seems to be.... I don't know, sulking?? what's that about??

 

**From: 845uoykcuf543**

Ah, yes. I tried to order a new phone last night. 

 

**To: The 'Vint (Not K)**

uh huh

 

**From: 645eoweow534**

I was very tired, and I made a fatal error.

 

**To: The 'Vint (Not K)**

you tried to order a new phone on your possessed phone, huh

 

**From: 765ydegartsseldne867**

I'm still not entirely sure it's "possessed" so much as "channelling the ripples of chaos energy from beyond the Fade," but yes. It took it as a threat, I think, so on the bright side, it's mostly working like a proper phone for now. 

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

down side?

 

**From: 897tsactuo879**

Down side, it keeps leaking saltwater, and anyone who calls winds up sounding like my mother at her most disapproving. I had a very emotionally confusing conversation with my department head this morning. 

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

so no phone sex for a while then, huh

 

**From: 354)':)':)':742**

Why are you like this.

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

} :-)

 

-

The coffee shop isn't exactly an exotic place for a first date - in fact, it's the exact same shop where Dorian gets his espresso every morning (and mid-morning) (and lunchtime) (and early afternoon) (and, if he's being honest, his evening black tea for the drive home). 

But it's a good place to chat, and as Mahanon lives in one of the graduate student residences nearby, easily accessible for both parties. 

So Dorian enters the café at precisely 11, not really expecting Mahanon to be there yet - the elf, though eager and hardworking, tends to run a few minutes behind most days. Dorian accepted long ago that Mahanon seems to operate on a different clock than most people, often forgetting things like lunch and break time when he's in the depths of research, and sometimes forgetting to leave the library before it closes for the night.

Dorian had to rescue him once, on Mahanon's second week with the research position, after the elf emerged from his research at midnight only to find himself locked in. It's a night that Dorian remembers very fondly, if just for the incredibly sheepish look on Mahanon's face after security unlocked the doors and let him free. 

So it's a small surprise to find Mahanon curled up in one of the two armchairs by the fire, having clearly staked out the area for them both. He's got his nose buried in what looks like an ancient tome, and - Maker bless him, there's two coffees waiting there on the fireplace, one of them clearly an espresso in a short cup. 

Mahanon, true to form, doesn't notice Dorian's presence even as Dorian takes a seat across from him, settles himself, and takes up the short cup of espresso he assumes is his. Finally, Dorian reaches between them and gives Mahanon's knee a little shake.

"Whazza-?" Mahanon startles, ears flicking up. He nearly drops the book when he sees Dorian sitting there. "Shit, Creators, is it really-? And the coffee is here too, I asked them to bring it over around this time, I must not have- I could have  _sworn_ it was 10 only a moment ago, sorry-"

"Good book?"

"I figured it'd make for a good conversation starter if we panicked and couldn't think of anything to talk about," Mahanon says cheerfully, carefully bookmarking the page and handing it over for Dorian to look at. "It's about a hundred years old, but it's in pretty good shape. It's a compilation of some oral histories from one or two clans in the northwest Free Marches. I've been making a list of borrow-words that sound Tevene in origin."

"Oh?" Dorian takes a sip of his espresso, looking the book over, and he can't help but smile. "This is perfect, by the way, thank you."

"Well, I wouldn't be a very good assistant if I didn't know what coffee you like, now would I?" Mahanon says, grinning. Dorian is momentarily distracted from the book by Mahanon's freckles and, Maker help him, the little dimples in the corners of his smile. It's an entirely unfair combination, and it's only his academic curiosity that drags his attention back to the book. "Anyway, clan history is hard to track from before the Reunification - it was meant to be that way, so we couldn't get wiped out. There's some funny stories from some areas around Tevinter about clans just kind of appearing out of nowhere, with no previous interaction with the Dalish community as a whole. There are some theories that during one or two mass slave uprisings in the Imperium, the elves who escaped disguised themselves as Dalish and adopted Dalish practices to avoid poverty in the alienages, recapturing by slavers, all that fun stuff. I feel like just the sheer amount of mingled Arcanum in this dialect could contribute to that theory, but I'd want a native speaker to look it over first-"

Dorian's definitely intrigued, but more than that... more than that, there's an odd, awful little prickling at the back of his mind as Mahanon talks, and it's a familiar enough feeling as much as Dorian's become frightfully good at tamping down on it over the years. Even so. 

Guilt. Not, thankfully, the odd and upsetting guilt of the past few weeks, as he worried over keeping his feelings for Mahanon secret from Bull. Guilt on a much larger scale. Guilt that he's had to contend with since coming south, and meeting more people from varied backgrounds-

_More elves._

Guilt, because while he barely speaks to his mother and has not had contact with his father in over five years, he knows for a fact that his family home - the sprawling Pavus estate - is tended to by low to unpaid labour. Guilt that for years, even after coming south, he justified it the way many from his country still justify it; how it saves people from homelessness and poverty, that the workers are paid in food and lodging, that his family  _treats them well_ , as if you could treat anyone well in such circumstances. As if the circumstances themselves weren't a form of abuse. 

"Er," Dorian says, interrupting Mahanon's spirited ramble on the traditions of Dalish oral history mid-sentence. "Sorry, I um- I feel like before we go any further, there's- something you should be aware of."

He expects Mahanon to crack a joke here, to lighten the sudden shift in mood, or to just stare at him. Instead, Mahanon leans forward, his eyes warm and kind. "Alright. Is everything okay?"

"I mean-" Dorian coughs a bit, realizing that there's really no good way to phrase what he's trying to say. He finds himself directing his next words to a space just over Mahanon's left shoulder, not quite able to meet those big elf eyes as he speaks. "My family, they-  _we_ , er, come from a noble class. I'm an Altus, technically, though I left that life behind long ago."

He takes a sip of his espresso, trying to drag his thoughts together in preparation for another beleaguered sentence, and he's disheartened to hear that Mahanon's tone is entirely unreadable as he says, "Uh-huh."

"What I'm trying to say is, um- the way I was raised- my family employed unpaid workers-"

"Slaves."

Dorian winces at the correction, biting back the old programming, an ugly part of him  _begging_  to disagree as the rest of him quietly tries to smother it to death. "Yes. What I'm saying is I come from that background, and I've spent the past half-decade unlearning terrible things, and I doubt I will ever stop finding new terrible things to unlearn, and I hope I never do. But I thought you deserved to know that, before we take this any further."

The silence that follows causes Dorian to seriously consider self-immolating, just to escape the situation and more importantly to stop him from speaking to anyone ever again.

Then, still a bit opaquely, Mahanon says, "Uh, just checking- you're not looking for me to, um, forgive you and your family on behalf of all elves for-?"

"Oh fuck no," Dorian says very quickly, meeting Mahanon's suddenly keen and searching gaze. "Absolutely not. I just... it didn't seem right for me not to tell you that."

Mahanon watches him a moment longer with an analytical look that Dorian's only ever seen him train on old books and scrolls and, once, a challenging crossword puzzle in the university newspaper. It's not cold, exactly, but it's definitely cooler than the look he was giving Dorian a minute ago.

Then Mahanon smiles a little, and Dorian dares to feel some small sense of hope. "You'd be surprised how many people do that, and you just know they want a blessing from their 'elf friend' to feel more comfortable about their own role in things."

"That sounds wildly frustrating."

"It's not fun." Mahanon tilts his head. "But you want me to know all this so I can make an informed choice here, yeah?"

"Precisely," Dorian says, trying not to look too visibly relieved. 

Mahanon's smile widens, his expression losing a bit of that detached air. "Well, that's... thank you. For the record, I kind of figured."

Dorian feels a grimace pull at his lips and does a very bad job of fighting it. "Oh?" 

"I mean, a lot of my job - the stuff that isn't just transcribing really deeply boring interviews - is extrapolating likely conclusions and scenarios from incomplete data," Mahanon says, sipping his own coffee with a thoughtful expression. "You're clearly well-educated, you're a mage, you're from Tevinter, you seem to have conflicted feelings about your home country, and whenever I bring up the slave trade in Tevinter you look like you've just pinched a nerve in your face and you're trying not to show how very deeply painful it all is. Also, at least three times after it's come up, you've mentioned talking to the dean about giving me a raise, apropos of nothing."

"Oh Maker, do I do that?"

"Mm, but last time I did end up getting a raise, so I guess third time's the charm." Mahanon shrugs. "Plus, you said your partner's- what, qunari, you said? So you've kind of got a non-human vouching for you already."

"I'll have to thank him for his endorsement," Dorian says, and Mahanon grins. He lifts the book. "I do think this is both an excellent conversation topic, and a good lead. Any reason why you're focused on these clans? You're from the Free Marches, aren't you?"

"The southern Free Marches - Planasene Forest, specifically - but our people got shuffled around a lot," Mahanon says. "I don't think the Sliabh clan got too many elves mingled in with us from the north, apparently we were pretty secluded for a long while, but there's really no way to know. I just think the whole thing is fascinating; thought about writing my thesis on the northern clans, and their ties to the underground out of Tevinter."

"Sliabh?" Dorian frowns. "I thought your last name was Lavellan?"

"Oh, Creators, professor, if we're going to get into Dalish nomenclature, you better get comfortable," Mahanon says, laughing.

Dorian leans forward, passing Mahanon's book back to him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Mahanon's smiling again, even biting his lower lip a little, showing off a slightly longer and sharper than human canine. Dorian, a little deliriously, can't help but imagine the points of Mahanon's teeth pressing into his skin, and how good that might feel. 

"Well," Mahanon says, his tone playful - not playful enough to disguise what sounds like very real enthusiasm for what Dorian expects is going to be a very long lecture on Dalish naming systems. "Just remember that you asked for it."

Dorian learns quite a lot over the next hour. He's more than okay with this; he's always liked learning things, and he's always found learning to be especially fun when the one doing the teaching is handsome, with pretty eyes. Freckles. Dimples. 

He knew - loosely - how the Dalish used to trade mages during their Arlathvenn, long before the Reunification. Though the Dalish clans now communicate with one another freely, some still choose to live a nomadic lifestyle. In these clans, keeping more than a few mages on hand at a time without proper training is, as Mahanon puts it, "Just not practical if you want to keep things from exploding all the time." 

"So you were sent to the Lavellan clan?" Dorian asks. "That can't have been an easy choice for your parents to make."

"It was hard," Mahanon says, a rueful note in his voice. "The Lavellans settled and set up facilities for people like me, even a nice little academy, so it was really the practical choice. And luckily it's not like how it was - you know, I could still phone my mum, my dads. Humans see their last names as carrying a family line, passed down mostly through the patriarchal line, right?" Dorian nods. "Well, our surnames act as a statement of which clans we're representing. My full name is Sliabh-Lavellan - a lot of us transfers like to hyphenate, just to stay close to our birth clans. But I mean, Mahanon Sliabh-Lavellan is a bit of a mouthful, I try not to inflict it on people if I don't have to."

"I think it's very musical," Dorian says, and Mahanon's ears twitch at this, his cheeks pinking slightly. Dorian hesitates, then asks, "I'm sorry, you said... dads? Plural?"

"Yeah," Mahanon says, smiling softly. Like he has some idea of what Dorian might be thinking. "The Sliabhs - I guess you could call us progressive, but apparently we never really gave a shit about that kind of thing; sexuality, or gender, or monogamy, whatever. A lot of the parents in the clan were part of looser family units; my mother and my fathers were kind of almost unusually tight-knit. It was a bit of a rude awakening when I left the clan and found out - well, how the rest of the world feels about polyamorous gay elf mages, you know?"

"Sadly, yes," Dorian murmurs, trying not to think too hard about his own father, and his opinions on sexuality. He'd never had the luxury of not knowing how society felt about him. 

"Sorry," Mahanon says suddenly, causing Dorian to glance up again. "I'm- I don't want to assume anything, but I know Tevinter... well, I hear the country's not exactly, um, accepting."

"Oh, they don't mind what their citizens get up to, so long as it doesn't interfere with the grand Imperium's future," Dorian says airily. "We like our strong bloodlines, us Tevinter folk. We like to pretend we've gotten less obsessive with our genetics, but the noble classes still arrange marriages, still want to produce the very best and most magical children. My family wasn't best pleased that I decided not to fall in line."

"So you left?"

"Ran, more like, but yes."

Mahanon smiles gently, his eyes almost unbearably keen as they stay fixed on Dorian's face. "For the record, I think that's very brave."

Dorian huffs a short laugh. "Ah, yes, terribly brave, scarpering off to Ferelden to avoid family drama."

(It was, of course, far more than just "family drama," but... well, as much as Dorian likes Mahanon - maybe because he likes him so much - he doesn't really think the topic of his father's "solution" for him would make for good first date conversation.)

"No, it is," Mahanon insists, leaning forward. "Prof-  _Dorian._  I don't know the whole story, I know I don't. But it takes a great deal of bravery to escape a prescribed path, especially if you don't have any idea what's waiting for you on the other side. Especially if no one's supporting you as you go. But you got out, you came here, you made the kind of life for yourself you wanted to live... I really think that's brave. I think it's damn impressive." 

Dorian swallows, harder than he intends to. He wants to make some sort of flippant remark, but he finds he can't. Not with Mahanon still looking at him with that earnest expression, like he believes everything he just said. Like he really thinks Dorian is brave.

"Thank you," he finds himself saying instead. "That's... kind of you."

Mahanon smiles, quirking a brow. "And anyway, you're in a long-term relationship with a qunari  _and_  dating an elf, so like, fuck 'em, yeah?"

This surprises a laugh out of Dorian, who raises the last dregs of his espresso to Mahanon in a toast. "Fuck 'em indeed." 

Mahanon laughs too -  _giggles_ , damn it, it's painfully cute - and... well, Dorian promised himself he wouldn't bring it up, but with the opportunity presenting itself so organically...

"He'd like you, you know," Dorian says lightly, putting down his empty espresso cup. "My partner."

"You think so?" Mahanon adjusts his glasses, looking very thoughtful. "I do like qunari..."

" _Oh?_ " Dorian intends every ounce of innuendo that winds up in the word, and is rewarded with a very sheepish grin from Mahanon. 

"I just mean- well, I'm assuming you see the appeal without me having to get into it," Mahanon says, flushing red. Dorian raises his brows, saying nothing, enjoying watching Mahanon squirm a bit. "I'm actually sort of seeing a qu-"

" _Well_ , doesn't this look cozy?"

Dorian looks up, his blood running a bit cold as he sees -  _damn it_  - his fellow colleague and the military academy's somewhat terrifying Internal Affairs director, Leliana Vasseur, staring down at the two of them with a frightfully toothy grin. 

"Leliana!" Mahanon says happily, even waving a little, like he isn't addressing one of the most powerful women in... fuck, all of Ferelden, never mind Skyhold. "Hello! Having a good Saturday?"

"It's certainly been interesting," Leliana says, her face softening a little as she turns her attention to Mahanon, and- well, Dorian really can't blame her for that. It's hard to resist that sunny smile. "Shouldn't you be enjoying a day off? Or is Dr Pavus here making you work weekends?"

"Absolutely not, I'm a very big believer in days off," Dorian says quickly. "This is a purely social arrangement, I assure you."

Leliana raises an eyebrow, a gentle edge in her voice as she looks at Dorian and says, "Is it, now?"

_Shit._

It's not like he's doing anything  _wrong,_  damn it, but he knows- well, he knows how it looks: a slightly older (not  _that_  much older, damn it) professor seeing a grad student (not  _his_  student, he absolutely would not be here if Mahanon were  _his student_ ), it- well, it looks a bit sleazy.

"Just coffee," Mahanon says, looking between Dorian and Leliana and back again, clearly sensing the tension. "Discussing, you know - thesis statements, and, um-"

"Dalish nomenclature," says Dorian.

"Exactly!"

Leliana narrows her eyes a little, but she's still looking very friendly -  _deceptively_  friendly, Dorian doesn't trust it for even a moment. "Well, that sounds like fun. I'll leave you both to it, then?"

She rests a hand on Mahanon's shoulder then, and adds, "You're still on for dinner with me and Josie Monday night, yes?"

"Of course!" Mahanon's eyes light up. "Oh, will Niamh be there?"

"Mhm," Leliana says, looking directly at Dorian. "She's back from Adamant tomorrow."

"Fantastic, I had some questions I wanted to ask about Dalish conscription to the Wardens back in the day-"

"I'll warn her in advance," Leliana says, but sounding very fond. "Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen."

She leaves, Mahanon looking very pleased as she watches her go. He turns back to find Dorian staring at him. "What?"

"You- have  _dinner,_ with Leliana Vasseur?" Dorian says, a little weakly.

"Not often, she and Josie get pretty busy," Mahanon says. "And Niamh - her wife - she's usually off on Grey Warden business, so she's not around much. Leliana's always been really friendly with me, I think she gets kind of protective of the elves here, she likes checking up on us."

"Fantastic," Dorian deadpans. 

"You don't think we'll get in trouble for this, do you?" Mahanon says, frowning. "I mean, we're coworkers, right? As far as I could tell, there didn't seem to be any rules against it in the employee guidelines."

"I-" Dorian can't help but smirk a bit. "You checked, did you?"

"I do my research," Mahanon says, lifting his chin. 

"Well, I don't think you'dget in trouble, she seems to like you far too much for that. Me, however, as the evil Tevinter altus clearly trying to seduce and corrupt a sweet and innocent research assistant-"

Mahanon snorts loudly, nudging Dorian's foot. "As fun as that sounds, I'm  _sure_  she doesn't think that."

"Just wait. She'll send her little spies and ravens after me. I expect a very tragic assassination by the day's end."

"That would be tragic," Mahanon says, eyes twinkling. 

"I also notice she's 'Leliana' to you - not 'ma'am,' or 'Ms Vasseur'. You always seemed far more formal with me."

"Well, the difference there is that I'm not flirting shamelessly with Leliana," Mahanon says casually, lifting a brow. "And I think you like it when I call you professor."

Dorian leans back, his lips curling into a slow smile. "You think so, do you?"

"Mm. Am I wrong?"

Dorian strokes his moustache for a moment, watching as Mahanon's eyes follow the movement, resting on Dorian's lips, before flicking up to meet his gaze again.

"You're not wrong," Dorian says eventually, and Mahanon grins, showing off those sharp little teeth.

-

**From: L. Vasseur**

Mahanon is a sweet and gentle man and a friend and if you hurt him there will be nowhere in Thedas you can hide from me.

 

**To: L. Vasseur**

Shall I expect the assassins by sundown, or are they already on their way?

 

**From: L. Vasseur**

When you least expect it.

 

**To: L. Vasseur**

Coming from anyone else, that would be funny. A cute joke. From you, however, rest assured I'm suitably terrified. I also have absolutely no intention of hurting anyone who doesn't deserve it, so I'd greatly appreciate it if you wouldn't assume the worst of me when I've done nothing to earn your ire.

 

**From: L. Vasseur**

I suppose that's fair. I do have one question though.

 

**To: L. Vasseur**

Happy to answer any inquiries you might have, on anything, because I am at heart an open and honest man.

 

**From: L. Vasseur**

Why did your phone call me just now and why did the voice on the other end sound like my old music teacher from the Lothering chantry who, if I can recall correctly, has been dead now for over twenty years?

 

**To: L. Vasseur**

I need a new phone, is why. Was it a good conversation, at least?

 

**From: L. Vasseur**

She berated me for not keeping up with my classical guitar practice and hung up on me. 

 

**To: L. Vasseur**

Ah. Well, that I WILL apologize for.

 

-

 

The Singing Maiden is packed, but Bull's not too worried about tracking Lavellan down - one of the pros of being a seven-foot tall qunari with massive horns is that you're pretty fucking easy to spot in a crowd.

He nudges Krem on the way in, pointing to the sign on the door, advertising the night's entertainment. "Maryden Halewell- she's the one you've got the hots for, yeah?"

Krem elbows him back with a scowl. "She's a pretty girl, Chief, anyone'd look at her like that."

"If I remember, you were looking for a  _real_ long time."

Dalish snickers. Krem flips them both off and beelines for the bar once they're inside.

"Watch him, you remember what happened last time?" Skinner says, coming up to Bull's side. "Ah, maybe you don't, I think you were at the pool table. That was that night after we got back from the Gattler job-"

"Shit, Skinner, I don't think any of us remember that night," mutters Rocky.

"Well, anyway, Krem spent a good half hour standing on a chair to get a better look at her and nearly cracked his skull open when he lost his balance," Skinner says. "So like I said, I'd keep an eye on him tonight if she's playing."

Bull snorts. "Fuck, I wish I  _did_  remember that. Well, I've got my own business here tonight, so someone else gets to make sure Krem only embarrasses himself in a fun way tonight. Stitches?"

"I'm on it," Stitches mutters, and splits off from the group to follow Krem to the bar. 

They snag the end of a long raised table as a home base - easy enough to do, with the bar crowd largely out on the dance floor already, a decent opening act warming up the place for Maryden. Stitches and Krem come by after a few minutes with pitchers and tankards, even as Dalish starts eyeing the darts game taking place in one of the shadowy corners.

"Gonna make some money?" Bull asks. "I dare you to play without using magic to win."

Dalish makes an offended noise. "I never mix magic with darts, Chief, I win by talent alone. And anyway, not a mage, remember?"

"Sure," Bull says. "Just don't do that bull's eye split trick here, yeah? It's a dead giveaway, and I'm not looking to start any fights tonight."

Dalish mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like "never let me have any fun" and snatches up her tankard, stalking off to the darts.

"I guess her seat's free for taking, then?"

Bull grins and turns to see Lavellan standing behind him, and  _shit_ , the elf cleans up nice. Bull's especially a fan of the low, loose tank he's got on, low enough to reveal the curling tattoos sprawling across Lavellan's chest.  _Gotta love the Dalish._

That being said, the tight black jeans are also a hell of a treat. Bull makes a good show of looking him up and down - really only polite to let the elf know he's definitely got Bull's  _full_  attention - before saying, "Fuck yeah. Glad you could make it out."

"Wouldn't miss it," Lavellan says, snatching up Dalish's empty stool. "I hear Maryden's playing tonight. She's pretty popular up at Skyhold."

"She's pretty popular amongst the non-university crowds too," Skinner says, casting a sly glance at Krem, who takes a large swig of his beer and very pointedly ignores her. 

Bull hooks his foot around Lavellan's stool and drags it closer to his, causing the elf to squawk and grab at the table to regain his balance. He tries very hard to glare at Bull for this, but Bull can see his mouth twitching. "You want a drink?"

"You offering?" 

"If you don't mind cheap beer, yeah. I could also run up to the bar-"

Lavellan puts a hand on Bull's wrist, smiling. "I'm more than alright with cheap beer. It'll be nice to see you pouring something for me for a change." 

"A little role reversal?" Bull grabs one of the empty tankards, filling it generously from one of the jugs. "Pretty kinky way to start the night, Boss."

"Mm, I hope so," Lavellan says quietly, fantastically shamelessly, even throwing in a very suggestive  _look_  from under those long lashes as he takes the beer from Bull. 

"I mean, just so you two remember, the rest of us are sitting right here," Rocky says, his annoyance undercut somewhat by the beer foam dripping from his moustache. 

"I think they're asking us to behave," Lavellan says, sipping his beer.

"If they are, they should know better," Bull says, and Lavellan laughs. Actually, more of a giggle than anything else, and  _damn_ , that's fucking cute.

They do settle in though, and the first chunk of the night is spent how most nights with the Chargers are usually spent - ribbing, swapping stories, drinking. Bull keeps an eye on how much Lavellan's downing just to make sure his flirting isn't given the unfair advantage of falling on drunk ears, but the elf seems to be taking it slow, so Bull's comfortable keeping the banter up with him as the night wears on.

Bull takes notice when Krem's attention suddenly locks onto something behind him, a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face, and isn't surprised when he turns in his seat to see a pretty woman with her dark hair swept up into a loose bun and a damn fine electric guitar in hand take the stage to enthusiastic applause. She smiles out at the audience, quickly tuning up as her accompanying band sets up behind her.

"Shit, Krem, you ever thought about just talking to her?" Bull says, turning back to Krem, who's still staring at her with a thunderstruck kind of look.

"No," Krem says automatically, then shakes his head. "I mean, I don't want to talk to her. And if I did, it's not like the opportunity's gonna present itself anytime soon."

"It could," Bull says. "Anything's possible when you've got the Chargers with you."

"Okay, even if I did want to talk to her - and I don't - I absolutely would  _not_  want to do that with you lot hanging around," Krem says, as the Chargers share dangerous grins. "Bad. Very bad. Don't get any ideas."

"Tall order," says Skinner.

Krem rolls his eyes and points at Lavellan. "Boss, you keep Chief in line. Chief, you keep the others in line. I'm- I'm just going to try to get a bit closer."

"Hey, giving orders is  _my_  job," Bull calls as Krem disappears into the crowd. He turns to Lavellan, who looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh. "How about it, Boss? You gonna keep me in line?"

"It could certainly be very fun to try," Lavellan says. "Trying to wrangle a giant qunari merc, though... I feel like I'd have to train up to it."

"You could just do what my partner does," Bull says, waggling his fingers at Lavellan. "He always threatens to set my pants on fire when I'm getting ornery."

"While you're still in them?"

"Most of the time, yeah."

Lavellan snickers. "Your partner's a mage, then?"

"Yeah, apparently I've got a type."

"Huh," Lavellan says, sounding thoughtful. "That is such a coincidence."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I was just out today with-"

Whatever or whoever Lavellan was out with today, Bull doesn't find out, as a clash of drums cuts through the bar and a cheer goes up from the crowd on the dance floor. It's a fast-paced dance hit that Bull's heard once or twice before, one of Maryden's more popular pieces if the audience reaction is anything to go by.

Lavellan glances over his shoulder, then up at Bull, before slipping off his stool with a smile. The music is way too fucking loud to keep talking, but Lavellan's intention is clear as he holds out a hand to Bull, leading him out onto the dance floor. 

Lavellan, Bull finds out very quickly, is not a good dancer, but he is  _damn_ entertaining to watch as he does a kind of enthusiastic shimmy that's completely tonally inappropriate for the music they're listening to. He doesn't seem to mind Bull laughing at him, only lifts his chin proudly and shimmies more aggressively at Bull in response. 

Well, if Dorian's word is anything to go by, Bull's not that great a dancer either. He mostly bobs his head and watches Lavellan go, until Lavellan presses in close for a slightly slower song, looking up at him with very clear intent, and it becomes an entirely different kind of dance altogether. 

In the dim light and press of the crowd, Lavellan's hands start to roam a bit, over Bull's broad chest and down his sides - almost like he's more curious than anything, just by how gently he touches him. Bull lets him explore, though he eventually ups the ante a little by taking letting his hand come up to tangle in Lavellan's thick hair, brushing the pad of his thumb along the long tip of Lavellan's ear. If he knows anything about elves...

Lavellan shivers at the teasingly soft touch, his ear flicking back, and Bull follows it with his thumb, giving it a firmer stroke that causes Lavellan's hands to spasm a little over Bull's back before balling in the fabric of his shirt. Lavellan meets Bull's eyes, tilting his head to lean into Bull's touch, a question very clearly written in his expression. 

Bull grins, and he gives Lavellan's ear one last little tweak before dropping his hands to take Lavellan by the wrist, leading him out of the crowd to the very back of the bar, and through a side door. 

The alley is not the cleanest place, but it's thankfully around the corner from where the bar trash gets dumped, so far cleaner than it could be. 

"Watch the stairs," Bull says, taking the few steps down from the door and turning to see Lavellan murmuring something under his breath, waving a hand over the doorknob. "Whatcha up to?"

"Locking the door," Lavellan says, his voice a bit rough, before he turns and takes full advantage of the height afforded to him by being up a step or two to lean over and kiss Bull, deep and demanding, even growling a little as Bull laughs against his mouth. "The ear thing - that's  _not_  playing fair."

"I hope you never get the impression that I like to play fair," Bull murmurs, punctuating the point by sweeping Lavellan off the steps and into his arms. Lavellan yelps, but quickly adjusts, wrapping his legs tightly around Bull's midriff as Bull carries him away from the door, kissing him fiercely as they go.

Bull finds a clean(ish) patch of wall and pins Lavellan to it by his wrists, grinning as Lavellan moans audibly at this and goes a little limp. "Thought so." 

"Thought - what?" Lavellan gasps, letting his head fall back as Bull starts to kiss and bite his way down Lavellan's throat.

"Thought you might be the type who'd be into getting pinned by a big, tough-as-shit qunari merc," Bull says, grinding up between Lavellan's legs for good measure and grinning as Lavellan whimpers in response. "Looks like I was right."

"I wasn't exactly hiding it," Lavellan says, darting forward and taking the lobe of Bull's ear between his lips, briefly letting his sharp teeth close on it before letting go. His lips pressed close to Bull's ear, he murmurs, "I'm just glad you were paying attention."

"Oh, I am never  _not_  paying attention," Bull says. He quickly switches up his grip so he's got both of Lavellan's wrists trapped up in one hand, leaving the other free to slip up under the elf's shirt, where he starts tracing his thumb around one of Lavellan's nipples. Lavellan collapses back against the wall with a whine, arching into Bull's teasing touch, and even through those tight jeans Bull can feel how hard he is already. "How bad do you want this,  _Boss?_  How bad do you want me to make you beg for it?"

"Fuck,  _please_  don't make me beg," Lavellan gasps, squirming in Bull's hold and clearly desperate for more than Bull's giving him. "I've been half-hard all night, thinking about this."

"Just all night? I really gotta step up my game, I was hoping for a few days' worth of frustration at least."

"You're an evil,  _evil_  man- nngh," Lavellan's complaint breaks into a long moan as Bull presses closer, his hand slipping down to squeeze Lavellan's ass as he sucks what's probably gonna be a damn good mark into Lavellan's collarbone.

The hand holding Lavellan's wrists starts to tingle, and he lifts his head to see little sparks dancing around Lavellan's fingertips, spilling down over his skin and across Bull's fingers. There's sparks in Lavellan's hair too, causing it to lift into complete disarray as Lavellan looks up at him with an unapologetic, utterly heated expression, his lips swollen and those big elf eyes blown wide with need.

"Happens sometimes when I get... excited," Lavellan says roughly, pressing his hips into Bull and slowly rubbing himself off. "I can try to get it under control, if it bothers you."

"Nah," says Bull, the tingling sensation giving him some pretty fucking interesting ideas. He releases Lavellan's wrists, catching the elf around the waist and under the ass before he slips down the wall. "In fact, sweetheart, you're free to put those magic little hands of yours anywhere you want."

Lavellan laughs, until Bull smothers that laugh with a rough, biting kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could write an entire fic that's just setting up a modern Thedas universe and working in all the intricacies of magic and technology and what have you so but that wouldn't be super interesting to anyone but me so instead I try to slip it into expository narrative. Y'ALL ARE WELCOME.
> 
> Also, I had to give Niamh Surana a shoutout having just finished playing my first Origins and Awakenings playthrough with her last week. Love my elf OCs <3
> 
> AS ALWAYS COMMENTS ARE MY LIFEBLOOD AND I'M A VAMPIRE THAT FEEDS OFF POSITIVE REINFORCEMENT I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR I HOPE THE CHAPTER DELIVERED AFTER THE LONG WAIT


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short li'l chapter where things happen and people suck. A little smutty at the start. 
> 
> Also, a quick clue about the chaos phone: it communicates through the "to" and "from" lines, sometimes in code. I'm hearing that the chaos phone is the audience favourite of this fic so for the Full Phone Experience, make sure you're reading those! Thank you to everyone who's supported the fic so far!!

Dorian is asleep when Bull gets home that night.

Well, more accurately, Dorian is asleep  _until_  Bull gets home that night. He knows the qunari, massive as he is, is perfectly capable of slipping quietly into bed without waking him. That's not what he elects to do tonight.

What he does, Dorian can only guess as he wakes up four inches above the mattress after being bounced into oblivion, is bellyflop into bed with wild abandon and no consideration for sleeping Tevinter mages. 

" _You-_ " Dorian tries, cutting off with an awkward yelp as he starts to tumble from the bed, caught only by Bull's quick reflexes and a strong qunari hand clasped tight around his arm. "Was that fucking  _necessary?_ "

"Just checking if you were awake."

" _I was asleep._ "

"Well, you're not now."

Dorian's lips curl into a snarl, and he's about to have some very scathing things to say about being  _considerate_ , when Bull's mouth is on his and it is, stupidly, suddenly hard to formulate any kind of argument

"That's cheating and you know it," Dorian mutters, when Bull gives him space to breathe. 

"Are you complaining?"

"About a great many things. I have a list."

"Mm."

"An  _itemized_  list."

" _Mm._ "

Bull captures Dorian's lips again, as well as his waist, rolling them both over so Dorian is tangled up with him and resting on his chest. 

"Had a good night, then?" Dorian murmurs, feeling Bull growing half hard beneath him. 

"Oh, yeah," Bull says, with a broad grin. " _Oh_  yeah."

Dorian is very familiar with that tone, and finds himself raising an eyebrow. "Really? First date?"

"You and I didn't even make it to a first date _._ "

"I- that's- fair," Dorian concedes. He melts into another kiss, but curiosity gets the better of him, and he pulls away to ask, "And how was it?"

"The date?"

"The date and all its trappings."

Bull grins, his big hands sliding down over Dorian's back, his ass, finding his thighs even tangled in the sheets and maneuvering them apart to roll his hips up between him, and Dorian's breath stutters. "Is that something you'd like,  _kadan_? Hearing about my night with a cute little elf in a back alley? Imagining all the ways I made him beg for me?"

Maker, Maker help Dorian, because he actually  _would_  like that, if his cock's reaction to all this is anything to go by. But as much as Bull's words are making his mouth go dry, his pulse quicken, in his minds' eye he finds himself imagining Mahanon with Bull, instead of... well, whoever it is Bull saw tonight, lovely as they might be. He imagines tiny, sweet Mahanon and all the things Bull might do with him, the pretty picture Bull's offering to paint for him right now, and he doesn't know if it's entirely fair.

"Complete honesty," Dorian says, and Bull hums his approval before he continues, "I think I would like that. But perhaps not tonight."

Bull grins, and says, "Alright then," without a trace of disappointment. It seems like such a small thing to love, but Dorian does, the way Bull takes no offence or expresses anything other than enthusiasm for boundaries. Never so much as a pout. A small thing, but going by Dorian's past experiences in the bedroom, shockingly rare. 

Bull's hands start to work through the tangled sheets, his lips finding Dorian's again, and he says, "So how did  _your_  date go then?"

"Very respectably," Dorian says, with a haughty little sniff that makes Bull chuckle, low and deep and rumbling through Dorian's body where it lies pressed against Bull. "We drank coffee and discussed history studies and research methods. It was lovely."

"That does sound exactly like something you'd be into," Bull says. "Lemme guess - he lives in the library? Collects old books?  _Glasses?_ "

"He does wear glasses, but it's- fine, yes, alright, spot on," Dorian says, rolling his eyes. "And how about you? How did it go? Clearly it- er, ended well-"

"You were gonna say it had a happy ending, weren't you?"

"I caught it in time, so shush. Question still stands."

"Good." Bull's grin widens. " _Real_  good. He's quick - keeps up with the Chargers, which is pretty fuckin' impressive. A damn big flirt."

"Good dancer?"

"Fucking  _awful_  dancer."

"Well, you two are well-suited then." Dorian kisses Bull's jaw, following to his throat, and adds, "Tight pants?"

" _Fuck_  yeah."

"Elves-"

"Mhm." Bull shakes Dorian's shoulder, clearly taken by a thought. "You know what'd be hot?"

"Mm?"

"Your little nerdy elf with my flirty one. I'd bet they'd get  _on_ , you know?"

Dorian shoves Bull's shoulder with a scowl. "He's not a nerd!"

"Dorian,  _kadan_ , with all respect to your elf, he absolutely sounds like a nerd. In the best way."

Dorian shoves Bull again. "I  _will_  set those horrible pantaloons on fire if you don't stop calling him a nerd."

Bull rolls his eye, mutters something about "mages", and rolls them both over again, trapping Dorian under him and pinning his wrists to either side of his head. Dorian has, luckily, never had to admit it aloud, but nothing makes him melt faster than this, and Bull  _knows_  it, damn it. He makes a show effort of squirming, just to test Bull's hold, but it stays firm. 

"If you've already had your fun tonight, I hardly know why you'd need me," Dorian says archly, just to be a brat, a little like testing Bull's grip. 

Bull, however, surprises Dorian by dropping the game for a moment, his expression suddenly soft even as his hold on Dorian's wrists stays firm. 

"I'm always gonna need you,  _kadan_ ," Bull murmurs, sealing this with a kiss before adding, "Always gonna want you."

"Oh," Dorian says, a little weakly. He's never quite sure how to take it on the rare times Bull opts for genuine romance. "I- oh, well-"

Bull saves him from having to respond with another kiss, then saves him from having to think with a long, slow grind between Dorian's legs, until Dorian is a moaning mess and all questions and curiosities are pushed from his mind in place of an overwhelming need that Bull happily fulfils.

-

 

**To: Boss**

get home ok?

 

**From: Boss**

I did, thanks for checking :) you?

 

**To: Boss**

did I, a 7-foot qunari mercenary with an eyepatch and a full rack of dragon horns, get home ok

 

**From: Boss**

Well?

 

**To: Boss**

you're damn cute, you know that?

 

**From: Boss**

That's not what you said last night.

 

**To: Boss**

I should've. what did I say?

 

**From: Boss**

I think my favourite was "electric"

 

**To: Boss**

that'd be the fingers

 

**From: Boss**

You seemed to like the fingers ;)

 

**To: Boss**

wrong. LOVED the fingers.

 

**To: Boss**

seriously, last night was great

 

**To: Boss**

guess you could say there were... sparks

 

**To: Boss**

} ;-)

 

**From: Boss**

That's fucking terrible and I've screenshot it for posterity

 

**To: Boss**

gonna write in your diary about it or

 

**From: Boss**

Shhhhhhhhhhhh

 

**To: Boss**

that's not what you said last night

 

**To: Boss**

actually I think I might have said that last night

 

**To: Boss**

it's cute how loud you get

 

**From: Boss**

You're terrible

 

**To: Boss**

you DEFINITELY didn't say that last night

 

-

 

**To: Mahanon (Cute Research Assistant)**

I just remembered one of my old professors had a book on East Tevinter dialects amongst slaves in that area over the ages; slang and coded language and the like. If you want it shouldn't be too much trouble to contact him and have it copied and sent over. I'd ask for a scan, but... well, the Imperium.

 

**From: Mahanon (Cute00101011, huh?gnj)**

If it wouldn't be too much trouble, that would be amazing!! Thank you professor :)

 

**To: Mahanon (Cu00101he;s your assist1001ant, pavus1)**

No trouble at all, I'll try to get a message to him tomorrow. Sending crystal, if you can believe it.

 

**From: Mahanon (C1011101ar3nt you alreadywith th10001at qunari)**

Given that it's the Imperium, I can. They don't have phones there?

 

**To: Mahanon (101101so hard to k33p up wi th1001010your torr1d affairs1001)**

No, lucky bastards.

**From: Mahanon (1011101he seems n1ce at least1101)**

You don't like phones?

 

**To: Mahanon (1011how o1d is he pa vus1011)**

I'm finding that they are, occasionally, far more trouble than they're worth.

 

**From: Mahanon (110110he;s an assistant a n d 101101 a student101)**

Oh, I feel that, I hate that my phone has so many ways for people to contact me, e-mails and messages and texts...

 

**From: Mahanon (1011so scand a lous1011)**

I mean, you're fine, I don't mind getting messages from you :) I'm just saying it can get overwhelming. 

 

**To: Mahanon (10111have u f11k1d h1m yet1011)**

That's certainly one word for it.

 

-

 

The Herald's Rest is its usual sleepy Tuesday night self when the Chargers roll in, fresh off a quick jaunt south and back on a brief but lucrative contract. Lavellan seems to pick up on the mood as he comes over to pass around menus, throwing Bull a sly little smile as he does. His shirt's low enough that even in the dim light Bull can see the bruise on Lavellan's collarbone, a discolouration the approximate shape and size of Bull's mouth. Bull can't help but grin at that, the way Lavellan seems to be wearing it like a badge of pride. 

"You've got that look," Lavellan says to them all, pulling out his notepad once the menus are distributed. "Did you all just get off a job?"

"You've called it," Krem says, leaning back with a smirk. "Security detail for rich fucks."

"Easy work," Rocky grunts, with Stitches finishing, "Great pay."

"So top shelf stuff for you folks then, got it," Lavellan says. "If you're looking for recommendations, I'd suggest the- for  _fuck's_  sake."

The last part comes out as a low growl, Lavellan's gaze flicking over to the door. Bull follows it and isn't too surprised to see a familiar trio of Orlesian students roll in, murmuring to one another and casting distinctly shit-disturbing glances their way. 

"Sorry," Lavellan says, dragging his attention back to the table, not quite able to stow the scowl now set around his mouth and brows. "I'd recommend the-"

" _Hey, Rabbit!_ "

"-Crestwood Saison, it's got- it's beer," Lavellan finishes a bit lamely. None of the Chargers are really listening now anyway, glaring at the table where the Orlesians have taken their seats. 

"Boss, seriously, if you want them taken care of-" Skinner starts, but Lavellan shakes his head.

"It's honestly just more annoying than anything else, Creators only know why they bother coming all this way to act like little prigs when they've got a whole community of fellow prigs at the university to party with," Lavellan mutters. "Anyway-"

A balled-up napkin bounces off the back of Lavellan's head, followed by a roar of laughter from the Orlesians. Bull catches sight of sparks starting to wind through Lavellan's wild curls, and he knows better than to write it off as a trick of the light. 

" _Anyway_ ," Lavellan starts again, through gritted teeth, "Cabot's got a thing about bar fights, zero tolerance policy and all that, and given that I'm quite fond of all of you-"

"You know,  _ox-man_ , they've got a zoo up on campus for studying animals like you," one of the Orlesians calls, this time to Bull. "Bet they could arrange a cage for you and all your little rabbit friends."

The look on Lavellan's face twists from annoyance to genuine anger in a fucking heartbeat, and the change is... well, it's kind of a little terrifying, mostly because Bull's so used to Lavellan's sweet, smiling self that it's jarring to see him look like he's ready to cut a bitch all of a sudden. However, the way his eyes narrow and glint, cat-like, in the dim light, lips pulling into a slight snarl, even as there's an oddly satisfied and anticipatory gleam somewhere in all that-

Bull's not gonna pretend that it isn't also pretty damn hot, is all. 

Lavellan turns on his heel, marching over to the table with sparks trailing in his wake, and even the Orlesians seem to catch on that they've crossed a line somewhere, leaning back in their chairs as he approaches with laughter dying on their lips.

"Out," Lavellan says, the frightful calm of his voice undercut by how tightly coiled the rest of him is, like a snake preparing to strike. "You can harass me all you want, but you don't get to have a go at other customers here. Get the fuck out, you're done."

One of the Orlesians tries a laugh, even as his friends glance at him nervously. "You don't get to kick us out-"

"I can, and I'm doing it," Lavellan says, folding his arms. "I mean it. Get out. Or should I be calling your rich  _shem_  mummies and daddies to come get you?"

The Orlesian surges to his feet and grabs Lavellan by the jaw, his fingers digging into his cheeks as he towers over the elf. "You-"

But whatever he plans to say to Lavellan is lost as he's startled by the sound of eight chairs scraping back at once, all of the Chargers now up and ready to fight, held off only by Lavellan's hand coming up sharply to stop them. The Orlesian releases Lavellan, his face still twisted in a sneer.

"Cabot," Lavellan calls, not taking his eyes off the Orlesian, "What's the policy on customers harassing other customers?"

"Kick 'em out," a gruff voice from beyond the bar shouts back, sounding almost bored. 

"You heard the nice dwarf," Lavellan says coolly. 

The Orlesian cuts a glance at the Chargers, still on their feet, and his voice is too quiet to be heard when he speaks next - which is no problem for Bull, who wouldn't have made it very far as a Ben Hassrath if he couldn't read lips. 

"We know where you live, knife-ear," the Orlesian mutters, and Lavellan's ears twitch. "You really don't want to push us."

Lavellan just sighs, long, loud, and utterly unimpressed. "I've met more intimidating twelve-year olds, you know that? Seriously, you've embarrassed yourselves enough already tonight, just go."

One of the other Orlesians gets to his feet, eyeing the Chargers fearfully, and murmurs something to the first in their own language. The Orlesian snorts, and nods, stepping back. 

"Fine, then," the man says, patting his other friend on the shoulder and gesturing for the third to stand. "We'll go. The service here is complete shit anyway."

Lavellan does not move as he watches them go, arms still folded, the sparks now trailing down from his hair over his arms and shoulders. Only once the doors close behind the Orlesians does he rotate his jaw with a wince, a hand coming up to gingerly prod at the places where the Orlesian dug his fingers in.

He shakes his head as he comes back to the Chargers' table, stopping to snort at the sight of them all still standing. "That's very sweet of all of you, willing to beat up a couple of idiot frat boys on my behalf. I think the coast is clear. Drinks?"

His tone is light, unconcerned, but his ears are still twitching slightly. The Chargers sit reluctantly, and Skinner even lets out a very obviously disappointed huff. 

Soon everyone's talking drink orders again, and Lavellan's twitchy ears seem to calm at the return to normalcy. The rest of the bar seems to gain a decibel or two in volume as well, recovering from the awkward spectator silence of the past few minutes. 

It's loud enough by the time that Lavellan gets to Bull that he feels comfortable reaching over and taking Lavellan's wrist, tugging him in a bit closer to ask quietly, "You okay, Boss?"

"I'm fucking thrilled," Lavellan says with a wide, wolfy grin that's very nearly convincing. "I've been waiting for an excuse to kick them out."

"Sure," says Bull, his hand slipping down to take Lavellan's, brushing his thumb over Lavellan's knuckles. The tenderness of the act seems to catch Lavellan off-guard, as Bull hoped it would; the elf's breath catches a bit, eyes softening. So Bull takes the opportunity to press, "That Orlesian said he knows where you live. Didn't seem like he was bullshitting."

Lavellan's grin slips, ears flicking back, and his hand twitches in Bull's like he wants to tighten his grip, but he doesn't. He forces an awkward laugh. "He knows I'm up at Skyhold, that's all - like I said, I think we shared a class once. It's a big campus. And anyway, he doesn't exactly strike me as the 'dangerous' type."

"He strikes me as the 'asshole' type, and they can cause their own kind of trouble if given the chance," Bull says. 

"Honestly, I'd just be more flattered than anything else if they did try something up there," Lavellan shrugs. "Imagine going to all that effort to annoy some random elf."

"They came all the way here for that."

"I like to think it was 60% annoying me, 40% taking advantage of cheap booze," Lavellan says, determinedly cheerful. "Otherwise I'll start to get all big-headed, thinking I'm the reason Cabot's getting so much business. Speaking of drinks..."

The conversation, Bull knows, is over, with Lavellan either unwilling to acknowledge that the Orlesians might pose more of a threat than he's willing to admit, or - more likely, far more likely - unwilling to let Bull see just how shaken he is by that very possibility. 

-

Wednesday morning is busy for Dorian - meetings upon meetings, as well as an informal syllabus review for the coming semester. Somehow, despite wanting to stay in a strictly research position, he's been roped into teaching another class, and while it's a thankfully small seminar-style course rather than a 300-person undergrad lecture, he's hardly pleased about it. It's nearly noon when he finally gets a chance to drop in on Mahanon, and he's a bit disappointed when he pokes his nose into Mahanon's usual research room and finds that it's empty. 

He turns away with his mind already on the library - if Mahanon isn't in that room, he's usually hunting through the archives - when he frowns, and takes another look at the room. Empty. Well and truly empty. 

Mahanon, bless him, isn't the most organized man Dorian's met, and it's impossible to confuse a room Mahanon's been in on any given day with one he hasn't stepped foot in. Usually even if Mahanon's on a jaunt to the library, there will be evidence of his staked claim on the research room - a coffee cup or two, some scattered papers, an abandoned jacket, a mess of taped-up laptop cords, earphones, and charger cables. The room is spotless.

Dorian's frowning now as he steps out, and while he tells himself he's not in any way fussed or bothered by the revelation of the empty room, he's certainly moving a few paces faster than what one might call a relaxed walking speed as he heads for the library. 

His consternation grows, deny it though he tries, after he does a quick lap of the library and the connected archives and finds them similarly lacking in bushy-haired elves. A quick and, as usual, somewhat unpleasant conversation with the cranky librarian Solas confirms what Dorian already knows - Mahanon isn't here either. 

Dorian makes his way back to the research rooms, trying to quell the swirl of thoughts trying to kick up into a maelstrom in his head. Thoughts like, maybe Mahanon was wrong, and there is some policy on coworker relationships, and Mahanon as the junior employee was fired. Maybe Leliana pulled some strings to get him transferred because she really did disapprove of their less than platonic coffee on Saturday. 

Maybe Mahanon changed his mind as to whether or not he was comfortable seeing someone he works with, technically works  _for_. Maybe-

The next maybe, thankfully, utterly evaporates as Dorian turns the corner to see Mahanon in the last few steps of what looks like a full-pelt sprint to the research room, buckling over with a slight wheezing sound with one hand on the knob, another fixing his glasses. 

The first thing Dorian feels is a near overwhelming surge of relief. Somewhere in all those terrible maybes was that small, slight inkling that something might have actually happened to Mahanon, and it's only in seeing the elf that Dorian realizes how disturbing that inkling was. This is quickly followed by something like irritation, maybe even anger, because- well, Maker help him, he was  _worried,_  and he fully intends to tell Mahanon so, and to suggest that letting your boss know if you're planning to be late might be a responsible fucking work practice, and... well, a good way to prevent the man you're dating from having any unnecessary heart attacks, that's all. 

This intention must show on Dorian's face, because when Mahanon looks up and realizes he's there, his eyes flare wide behind his glasses and he starts speaking very quickly. "I'm so sorry I'm late, Dorian, did- you didn't happen to get my texts? You never responded- I mean, I figured you might have been busy, I'm not saying that- I just meant-"

"Hold," Dorian says, putting up a hand, and Mahanon's apologetic stream of consciousness ceases. "You texted me?"

Mahanon nods vigorously, still breathing heavily from his sprint. "At eight this morning. Then, um, again at ten."

Dorian fishes his phone out of his pocket, gives it a little shake, and unlocks the screen. Nothing - no notifications, no messages, no e-mails.

It's an outrageously suspicious amount of nothing. 

"Alright, cough it up," Dorian growls, tapping the screen a few times as Mahanon stares in utter bemusement. The phone buzzes in Dorian's hand, almost like it's shaking its... head? "I mean it. It's all fun and games until you stop actually functioning as a  _phone_. I will not hesitate to bin you."

An e-mail pops up from this morning, then another. Two missed call notifications - one from an unknown number, one from Mahanon. Four texts drip in after; Mahanon, Bull, Mahanon, Josephine Montilyet. With sulky reluctance, the phone dumps all of Dorian's social media notifications at once, then switches itself off. 

Dorian glances up to see Mahanon staring at the phone, then back up to Dorian, his mouth twitching like he's trying very hard not to laugh. 

"Um, I know you said you don't like phones much, but I had no idea yours was... what in Mythal's name-?"

"An experiment that's had some decidedly mixed results," Dorian sighs, stowing it back in his pocket. "My apologies, I never received your messages, so I got a bit-"

He cuts off before admitting to being worried, and elects to finish the sentence with a delicate cough instead. Mahanon's responding smile is just as soft as if he'd said it aloud, but he changes subjects to help Dorian save face. 

"Who's 'The Brute?' Not- I mean, I wasn't trying to snoop, just when all the messages were popping up-"

"My partner," Dorian says, grateful to move on.

"The qunari?"

"The very same."

"And is he a brute, professor?"

Dorian can't be imagining the distinctly interested tone Mahanon's got as he says this, and it brings to mind - completely unbidden - the complicated fantasies of a few nights' previous, of Mahanon and Bull-

_Stop it, you're at work._  

"He can be," Dorian answers noncommittally, though Mahanon smirks in an utterly unhelpful way at this regardless. "I can't help but notice that I was 'Dorian' when you were worried I might be cross with you."

"Uh huh."

"But I'm 'professor' now."

"Uh huh."

"You don't think that might be backwards?"

"No," Mahanon says, still smirking as he pushes the door to the research room open. "I mean, unless I thought I could employ some creative ways of making you not cross with me."

"Such as flirting?"

"Among other things. Could you grab the light?"

Dorian obliges, flicking it on and watching as Mahanon sets up at the table with his usual chaotic flair - jacket thrown carelessly over the back of the chair, a nest of electronic cords hauled out of his messenger bag, notebook stuffed with stray papers tossed onto the table. 

"So where were you this morning, out of curiosity?" Dorian asks, knowing better than to bother trying to pull up Mahanon's messages on his phone while its busy sulking in his pocket. 

"Oh, uh-" Mahanon pauses for a moment, looking a bit stuck. "There was a thing - with the housing that I'm in, the grad student block."

"A thing?"

"Random meeting, completely forgot about it," Mahanon says, busying himself with his tangle of cords. "You know how these things are."

"Of course," Dorian says, though he's really not sure he does. He tilts his head, looking closely at Mahanon under the bright lights of the research room. His clothes look a bit rumpled, sort of thrown-on, but that's hardly out of character for the elf. There's an odd line of two or more purple smudges along his jaw, almost like little bruises, but it's the deep shadows under the eyes that really catch Dorian's attention. Mahanon's eyes themselves are visibly bloodshot too. "Are you alright?" 

"Hm?" Mahanon says, jumping a little. "Yes, of course. It's just been a long night, that's all."

"It's half past noon."

"I mean last night was a long night, um- late shift at my other job, then this meeting this morning, just feels like I've been running around a lot - well, I have been running around a lot, actually, quite literally. Burning the wick at both ends, I suppose."

Dorian's not quite sure he's satisfied with this answer, but he does remember being a grad student. He's only had his doctorate for about a year now, after all. 

"Well," he says, stowing his curiosity for now, "if you ever need a break-"

"I don't-"

" _-if_  you ever do," Dorian continues firmly, taking the cords out of Mahanon's fumbling hands and placing them on the table. "Just let me know. You're already working overtime - don't deny it, I've seen you here well past six."

Mahanon looks up at Dorian through those long lashes of his, smiling. "Only 'cause I like being here."

"Well, as much as we like having you here - as much as  _I_ like having you here - no one would begrudge you if you need to take some time-"

Dorian doesn't finish, as Mahanon's eyes quite unexpectedly fill with tears at this, catching him utterly off-guard. It seems to surprise Mahanon too - he turns away with an exasperated-sounding little growl, looking up at the ceiling and blinking rapidly.

"Sorry," Mahanon says brusquely, before Dorian can say anything, or- well, even think of what to do, honestly, this isn't really his forté. "I'm just tired, I- like I said, long night,  _fenedhis_."

Dorian awkwardly and desperately wishes Bull were here, for very different reasons than he did before. Bull has always, despite his... well, despite who he is as a person, been better at comforting people than Dorian. If Dorian didn't like Mahanon so damned much, he'd find a graceful reason to exit and slip out of the room.

But he does. Like Mahanon, that is. Quite an awful lot. 

It takes some steeling of the nerves, but Dorian manages to close the distance between them to pull Mahanon into a tight hug. Mahanon, who clearly wasn't expecting this, lets out a surprised noise that Dorian is generous enough not to call a squeak before relaxing, even tucking his face down into Dorian's shoulder in a way that makes Dorian's heart flip. 

"Thanks," Mahanon says eventually, though he doesn't move to break the embrace at all.

"My pleasure," Dorian says, finding that he genuinely means it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had two choices here - make it an uber-long chapter and delay updating or update quicker with shorter chapters. I've had A Week and I wanted to get something out, and this seemed like a natural break, so here we go, my justification for FoxNonny's Wild and Whacky Pacing Ways.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's commented on this fic and been supportive, it's honestly so much fun to write. Love you all <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags on this chapter for (*spoilers*) magic porn! porn, but with magic!

Mahanon's mood doesn't seem to improve much on Thursday, though he seems determined to try to keep his malaise in check around Dorian, smiling and laughing and cracking jokes a little too often to be believed. He reminds Dorian forcibly of slightly wilted plant - the shadows under Mahanon's eyes are still pronounced, his clothes are a bit rumpled (well, more rumpled than usual), and he moves and speaks with far less energy than Dorian's used to seeing from him. 

Dorian tries asking, once, if Mahanon is alright, and predictably the elf waves him off.

"I'm just tired," Mahanon says, with another awkwardly forced smile. "I guess I just need a bit more coffee, or something."

Dorian, glancing at the three empty takeout cups littering Mahanon's desk, can't quite keep his eyebrow from lifting dubiously at this. "Uh huh."

"Anyway, I heard somewhere it takes about two nights to recover from one sleepless one, or something," Mahanon continues. "I had last night off from my other job and I've got tonight too, so by tomorrow I should be right as rain."

He's smiling, and Dorian's eyes drift to those blueish smudges along Mahanon's jaw - they really do look like little bruises, though Dorian has no idea what might have caused them, and he's not entirely sure how to ask. 

"If you want to take tomorrow off, have a long weekend-" Dorian starts, but Mahanon shakes his head before Dorian can finish.

"Creators, do I really look that terrible? I promise I'm completely fine. And anyway," Mahanon grins, "where would you be without your plucky research assistant? Mythal's mercy, who would you flirt with at lunch? Josephine?  _Solas?_ "

"Perish the thought," Dorian says, with a genuine shudder. 

"Why not? He's an elf, try as hard as he might to divorce himself from the rest of us-"

"There's only one elf I'm interested in flirting with, and I would be quite upset if he were to make himself sick through overwork," Dorian says. "My worry stems from a place of deep self-interest, I assure you."

Mahanon's tired eyes become very soft at this, giving Dorian that genuine look of deep affection that he still doesn't really know what to do with - it gets under his skin, a sort of squirming feeling that could almost be described as discomfort if he didn't enjoy it so damn much. If he was a blushing man, he might blush. It's not dissimilar to how he feels when Bull looks at him sometimes with that searing one-eyed stare, heated and hungry and wanting all at once. 

Huh. Wanting. Being wanted. That might just be the undoing of Dorian in the end. It certainly would have been back in Tevinter, at any rate.

"Please don't worry about me," Mahanon says gently. "Like I said, I'm completely fine."

And Dorian tries not to worry. He tries. But the problem, really, is that Mahanon is an utterly terrible liar.

He's still worrying when Bull gets in that night, bringing - Maker bless him - takeout from a local Nevarran place. Bull makes it from the door to the kitchen before he sets down the food and says, "Alright, what's on your mind?"

"Am I so transparent?"

"You're fretting. I'd be a shit partner if I didn't know when my own  _kadan_  is fretting."

"It's not-" Dorian sighs, perching on one of the stools set against the kitchen counter. "I might be fretting, a little. My assistant-"

"Your elf?"

"That's an incredibly dangerous phrase for someone of my background to say, Bull, but yes. He's been... I don't know. Something's upsetting him, though he seems determined to keep it to himself. He's... tired? Sad? I'm not sure." 

"Hmm. You said he's a grad student?"

"Mhm."

"Remember what you were like when you were coming up to your thesis defence?"

Dorian winces. "I don't remember much from that period of time, frankly."

"Exactly. Well, I remember. You were a mess. Just, absolutely wrecked. I thought you were gonna burn the place down."

"Was I really that bad?"

"You were stressed the fuck out. Your assistant, he's probably in the same boat. I wouldn't worry too much." Bull pats Dorian on the head and grins as Dorian scowls. "Just keep him fed, watered, for fuck's sake caffeinated, and he should be fine. That was my strategy, anyway. In the meantime, tomorrow's Friday, that'll probably help the mood a bit. Everyone loves Fridays."

Dorian mulls over Bull's words as they eat and the conversation turns to other matters, and allows them to ease his worries somewhat. He does, after all, remember what it's like to be a grad student.

So the next morning Dorian gets up a little earlier than usual, heads up to the university for eight instead of nine, planning to give the good will of a Friday mood a bit of a nudge by taking Bull's advice to heart: keeping Mahanon fed, watered, and caffeinated. It's very little trouble on his part to pick up two coffees from the shop instead of one, as well as one of those cinnamon buns he often sees Mahanon nibbling on throughout the morning between reading, translating, and transcribing. It's a two-second charm on the coffee to keep it hot for whenever Mahanon shows up, and his plan is to leave it in the research room that, at this point, might as well have Mahanon's name on a plaque outside the door, given how often he's in there.

The plan stalls momentarily when Dorian reaches the room and finds the door locked, but he is a mage, after all, and he doesn't think the university would mind terribly if he were to bend some rules regarding the responsible use of magic on school property for a door that shouldn't be locked in the first place, and hardly contains anything of value. A flick of the wrist and the lock twists with a click, and Dorian pushes through the door, feeling far more triumphant than the situation warrants.

This feeling of triumph is immediately obliterated, as are several of Dorian's brain cells, by the sight of Mahanon, already standing in the room. Barefoot. In boxers, and an oversized t-shirt with the Skyhold sports department mascot (a leaping nug) emblazoned across the front, in the middle of examining another, somewhat more work-appropriate shirt for stains or wrinkles, Dorian can only assume. Or at least, Mahanon was examining it - he's still holding the shirt in front of him, but his attention is fixed on Dorian now, eyes almost comically enormous as he does an extremely convincing impression of a startled deer. 

"Guh," Mahanon says, or something close to it, then swallows and glances down at himself, then back up again. "Right. Um. So this- what happened, you see, was-"

"Is that a  _cot_?" Dorian asks, eyes landing on - yes, it absolutely has to be, what looks like a foldable camping cot set up in the corner, a backpack, a trunk, and two small bags set beside it. "Are- are you  _living_  in here?"

Mahanon's eyes dart to the window, like he's genuinely considering trying to escape that way, before dropping squarely to the floor. "I- sort of. I mean, just for the past... just since Wednesday."

Dorian almost,  _almost_ , very nearly laughs - not out of any kind of mirth, but from the sheer absurdity of how intensely sideways his morning has gone. He swallows the urge, but it's a damn near thing.

Instead, he slowly shuts the door behind him, crosses the room to put the coffee down on the table as well as his bag, and turns to Mahanon, who still has not looked up from the floor. 

Dorian breathes, then - with what he considers to be  _impressive_  levels of calm - manages to ask, "Mahanon. Why are you camping in the research room?"

Mahanon rubs at his temple, looking pained. "It's a really fucking stupid story. I don't suppose you could just, um, come back in five minutes once I've got everything cleared away, I could maybe put some clothes on, we could pretend this didn't-?"

"No, if only because the curiosity would literally kill me dead," Dorian says. "I asked - more than once - if you were alright-"

"I  _am_ -"

"In what world is 'sleeping in the research room'  _alright?_ "

"I've slept in weirder places-"

"That's really not a defence!"

"I'm not defending it! I'm-  _fenedhis lasa_ , fucking- my apartment got trashed."

Dorian stares, gripping the back of the closest chair. " _What?_ "

Mahanon crosses his arms, almost hugging himself, his expression bitterly embarrassed. "I was a fucking idiot, alright? Some  _shem_  kids've been acting up the past few weeks - not too happy having someone like me around, I guess. I pissed them off Tuesday night, didn't take them too seriously when they said they'd get their own back, and, well. I got home at two in the morning from my other job to find my place just... I mean, I was smart enough to put all the really valuable shit in the trunk, I've got it warded pretty well - they get twitchy when you start warding the apartment itself, and I didn't want to give the property manager any reason to have second thoughts about renting a place to a Dalish mage - but I should've..." Mahanon shakes his head. "So yeah, anything that wasn't nailed down or in the trunk got smashed, ripped up, or pissed on, and everything I've got left, everything I could salvage - well, it's right there."

He motions to the corner, and suddenly there's nothing at all funny about the sight of the cot, the trunk, the backpack and the two small bags. 

"But that's- tell me you pressed charges," Dorian says, feeling a white hot fury building and finding it difficult to keep the heat of it out of his voice. "You live in the grad residency, don't you? They should have-"

"You would think," Mahanon says, sounding exhausted. "The story they heard from one of my neighbours was that a few 'friends of mine' decided to have a little party in there while I was out - with my permission, otherwise how could they have gotten into the building? I strongly suspect the neighbour who fed this story is an alumni of the same frat, but that could just be my conspiracy brain going. No way to prove who it was, or that I wasn't in on the whole thing. I'm pretty sure they think they're being generous all things considered, they're not charging me for any damage to the apartment."

The two men are briefly distracted by the chair Dorian's gripping suddenly bursting into flames under his hand. Dorian curses and manages to reign his magic back before the chair is completely consumed, but the scent of burning wood does nothing to improve Dorian's temper. 

"Apologies," Dorian mutters, and Mahanon just shrugs. "So, correct me if I'm wrong, but if you're in residence, that's covered under your tuition-?"

"Mhm."

"And they just... what, kicked you out?"

"Oh, they offered me another place to go while my place is getting fixed up - not in the grad residency, though, all those places are full. No, I was welcome to split a room with some eighteen-year-old undergrad on the other side of campus. If I was really lucky and patient, I could have held out for one of those cell-block single rooms in the towers by the frat houses. Call me pretentious, but the idea of sharing washrooms and showers with a bunch of teenagers didn't really appeal to me."

"And you'd have even less security watching to make sure this doesn't happen again," Dorian says, suspecting this is closer to the heart of the matter than Mahanon's supposed discerning taste. The rueful twist of Mahanon's mouth at this only confirms his suspicions. "I take it you told them to shove their offer?"

"I told them I had some friends I could stay with," Mahanon says, and winces. "Which- I mean, given where I'm standing right now, probably sounds a bit sad."

"Well that's what I don't understand," says Dorian. "You do have friends, you- you literally just had dinner with  _Leliana Vasseur!_  Niamh Surana! Two of the scariest women in Ferelden, never mind Thedas, you didn't think to go to them?"

"Out of town," Mahanon mutters, looking uncomfortable. 

"Well, fuck, Josephine's pretty damn fond of you, and- Mahanon, you could have talked to  _me_ ," Dorian says, flinching at the hurt in his voice. He quickly decides that he isn't hurt, he's irritated, maybe even angry, because Mahanon has been sitting on this for two whole days, hasn't said a word, insisted he was  _fine_. "You've called me at midnight to rescue you from being locked in the library, you don't think I would have helped you if you'd stopped lying to me and just told me what was going on?"

Mahanon's head jerks up at this, his expression stricken. "Dorian, I wasn't-"

"Wasn't  _what?_  What exactly would you call coming in half a day late for work and telling me it was because of a- what did you say it was?  _A random meeting?_ "

"I- I said it was a  _thing_ ," Mahanon says stubbornly. "A thing with the grad student block, technically that's-"

" _Festis bei umo canavarum_ , you really,  _truly_  think you're going to find a leg to stand on in this by virtue of a  _fucking technicality?_ "

"Why the fuck are you shouting at me?"

" _Because I was fucking worried!_ " Dorian - well, yes, shouts, but he reels it back in as much as he can at Mahanon's flinch. "Because- because I fucking  _care_  about you, damn it, because I could have helped, and I- I don't understand why you didn't just  _talk_  to me."

"I-" Mahanon grimaces, that bitter, frustrated humiliation back in his face and voice. " _Creators_ , Dorian, I was fucking embarrassed, okay?"

" _Why?_  You didn't do this, you didn't ask for any of this-"

"Because apparently I need help dealing with a couple of jumped-up frat boys who can't wipe their own fucking noses without their nannies holding the tissue!" Mahanon snaps. "The fact I let it get this far, the fact that I don't get to just work and study and- fucking flirt with handsome men, whatever, I don't get to live without someone out there thinking it's there job to fucking punish me for it! I don't want to constantly be hiding behind other people, damn it, you think I don't  _know_  that I could call Leliana and have her sort this in a heartbeat? Because I know you would want to help, Dorian, Creators, I thought about telling you a thousand times, but- I sat down in that meeting and I went through all the right steps and they took the words of some smirking rich  _children_  over mine, because of my ears, because of my eyes, because of my  _vallaslin_ , because they don't see me as a person, and the idea that I'd need some humans vouching for me to prove that I  _am_  one..." Mahanon is shaking now, ears flat back and eyes shining, stubborn and furious and clearly deeply hurt in ways that Dorian can't touch. "I couldn't- Dorian, I just couldn't do that. I couldn't tell you, or Leliana, or anyone. It felt too much like letting them win. Like proving them right. Like I didn't just get here on my own fucking merits, because I've got as much a right to be here as any one else."

Dorian doesn't know what to say to this, or how to make any of it better. His mouth starts moving anyway. "So you're saying that you're sleeping in the research room... to save your pride?"

Mahanon blinks, startled out of that bitter rage, and to Dorian's utter relief he laughs. "I- well, I mean, when you put it that way it sounds pretty fucking stupid."

"I don't think it's stupid," Dorian says. "I think it's stupid that you're not allowed to hunt them down and set them on fire for what they did, if anything about this is stupid."

"Setting them on fire wouldn't be my first instinct."

"No?"

Mahanon shakes his head. "Lightning bolt. Just, hide on a roof and make them think their Maker hates each and every one of them in particular. Don't think I haven't thought about it."

Dorian grins at that, then says, "I'm still- how are you making this work, exactly? The research rooms don't have much in the way of living necessities, and security..." 

"There are bathrooms down the hall and showers at the gym, and believe me, when you live with a nomadic forest clan you get really get really good at spells for personal hygiene. As for security, they're used to me working late and um-" Mahanon shifts, looking a bit guilty. "Well, these rooms are insured for low-level magic practice - for research purposes, you know - so no one gets twitchy if they feel a bit of magic around here. I usually set up a few wards at night when security are doing their last few rounds; nothing too complicated, just, if they're about to look in here they find themselves getting distracted by something else, then they forget to come back."

"I didn't feel any ward-"

"Well, it usually fades throughout the night, and it really only works for people who aren't expressly trying to get in this particular room for a specific purpose - I didn't want to trip any alarms." Mahanon raises a brow at Dorian. "I also figured that a locked door would stop  _most_  people from barging in."

"Ah," says Dorian. "Clearly you did not account for me."

"Clearly not," says Mahanon, smiling a little. 

Dorian clears his throat, fixing his gaze just to the left of Mahanon's shoulder. "I... I'm sorry, by the way. For shouting. I acted badly."

"A little," Mahanon says. "But I understand. I should have told you."

"It wasn't my right to know-"

"No, but- I do trust you, Dorian," Mahanon says, taking a step closer, and... well, it really isn't that big of a room, and they weren't standing very far apart from one another to begin with. While Dorian is still wholeheartedly committed to the conversation at hand, there is a not insignificant part of him that's taking great interest in Mahanon's proximity, and his incredible unhelpful state of partial undress. "I- I mean it should be pretty fucking obvious how I feel about you. I didn't want to put any of this on you, or- or sound like I couldn't handle it on my own. I wanted to handle it on my own."

"I understand that," Dorian says, determinedly switching his focus to Mahanon's face. "Or at least, I want to understand- not, I don't want to be in that position, but I want to understand... you. I want to help. If you'll let me. I'm- I believe what I'm trying to say is that I'd like you to stay at my place tonight."

Mahanon's lips part in surprise. "I- Dorian, you don't have to-"

"I very much want to," Dorian says. "I'll speak to my partner about it, though I'm certain he wouldn't mind, especially given the circumstances. We have a guest room, it really wouldn't be any problem at all, so long as you're comfortable with the idea." 

Mahanon bites his lip. "I- I really don't want to impose, I mean- as long as it wouldn't be weird-?"

"It would be far less weird than me going home knowing you're sleeping in here," Dorian says, and Mahanon quirks a rueful little smile at that. "It'll be fun! We could cook, drink wine, plan our terrifying revenge against those that have wronged you, really make a weekend of it."

"Terrifying revenge does sound like an awful lot of fun," Mahanon says, a sharp edge to his voice that's only slightly tempered by his broad grin. He glances over Dorian's shoulder, eyes softening. "You brought me coffee?"

"I- well, yes," Dorian says, thrown first by the change in subject, then by Mahanon taking another small step forward, placing him entirely within Dorian's space. "And breakfast."

"And breakfast," Mahanon echoes gently.

"My plan - which was a brilliant plan, by the way - was to leave it here as a very kind anonymous gesture."

"Clearly you didn't account for me," Mahanon murmurs, his voice low. 

"Clearly n-" Dorian tries to say, but is interrupted quite happily by Mahanon's mouth on his. 

Dorian's mind stalls, skips, and returns just in time to fully appreciate Mahanon's soft, full lips, his hands on Dorian's chest, leaning up on his toes to kiss him. He's gentle at first, almost tentative, until Dorian lets his arms fall around Mahanon's slim hips and leans in to everything Mahanon is giving him. Then the elf kisses far more fiercely, the points of his sharp teeth dragging over Dorian's bottom lip. It's warm, fucking passionate, not really what Dorian was expecting from the endearingly awkward, shy bookworm Dorian has come to know. 

"My dear," Dorian says, pulling back to speak but still holding Mahanon close in his arms. "I do believe you're trying to seduce me."

Mahanon blinks up at him, pupils blown wide and adopting a look of utterly imperfect innocence. "Me, professor? At work? Never."

"You're terrible," Dorian says, letting his head fall back as Mahanon presses his lips to his throat. " _Extremely_  terrible, this is- this is a terrible idea."

"Should we stop?" Mahanon asks, lips brushing Dorian's skin.

"We should, probably. Responsibility, respectability, something like that." Dorian slips his hand into Mahanon's hair, taking a gentle handful and tugging Mahanon's head back to face him. "However, it's also Friday."

Mahanon's breath comes out in a half-whine, clearly enjoying the bit of hair-pulling. "It sure is."

"It's Friday, and I don't feel particularly obliged to act responsibly or respectably. Do you?"

Mahanon shakes his head slowly, lips parting in a lazy, heated grin. "Not in the slightest."

Dorian lifts a hand, flicking towards the door, at precisely the same moment Mahanon does. Both of them jump as the lock makes a sound not dissimilar to a gunshot, and the scent of superheated wood and metal wafts from the door with an awful sizzling sort of sound. 

"Alright, so, coordination is something to consider," Dorian says primly, as Mahanon doubles over and hoots with laughter into Dorian's shoulder. "Well, no one will be getting that door open any time soon. Would you like to take care of sound-warding?"

"With pleasure," Mahanon says, straightening with a snicker. "We might have wanted to do that before accidentally exploding the lock."

"I'll make a note for next time," Dorian says, as Mahanon traces a few symbols in the air. In moments, Dorian's ears start to ring as the sounds from the corridor and the campus outside disappear completely. The ringing fades after a few seconds, but the muffling effect remains. "Very neatly done."

"I've been using it a lot over the past while," Mahanon says, shrugging. "Those grad apartments, honestly, they have terrible sound-proofing, and one of my neighbours-"

"Parties? Sex?"

"Worse. Video games."

"Dear  _Maker_."

"Honestly," Mahanon says, shaking his head, even as his hands return to Dorian's chest, long fingers making quick work of the buttons of Dorian's shirt. "It's enough to drive a man mad."

"It certainly is," Dorian says, a bit roughly, his mouth finding Mahanon's lips again, and all thoughts of terrible neighbours and sound-proofing are quickly forgotten. 

Dorian kisses Mahanon's mouth, his jaw, then along the tip of his ear, grinning as the elf shudders at this and his hands stutter over Dorian's buttons. He secures his arm around Mahanon's waist and reaffirms his grip on Mahanon's hair so he can tease his flicking ear in earnest, kissing and biting until Mahanon is making desperate little sounds. 

"Always the fucking  _ears_ -" Mahanon gasps, his voice very tight. "Did- did someone put out a fucking  _memo_ -?"

"You must know it's common knowledge that elves have a certain weakness," Dorian murmurs into Mahanon's ear, holding him tightly so he can't squirm away. "Some more... sensitive to it than others."

"Doesn't help that your- moustache- fucking  _tickles_ ," Mahanon manages, finishing with the last button and impatiently tugging Dorian's shirt open. Dorian lets Mahanon go so he can shrug it off, tossing the shirt onto the table as Mahanon untucks the hem of Dorian's undershirt from his slacks and pulls that off too. The elf freezes suddenly, still holding Dorian's undershirt, staring openly at Dorian's naked chest.

"Everything alright?" Dorian asks, easing the undershirt out of Mahanon's hands and casting it off to the worktable to join his button-down.

"I-" Mahanon swallows hard, eyes roaming over Dorian's chest and arms, like he's struggling to take it all in. "You're- you're a professor! An academic! You've got no right looking like this, I'm-  _Creators_ , Dorian, you're-" he seems to realize that he's babbling, and with a frustrated sound finishes very quickly with, "you're a very fucking handsome man."

"You flatter me," Dorian says, torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to kiss Mahanon until neither of them can breathe. 

"It is  _not_  flattery," Mahanon says firmly, eyes still enormous as his hands come up to cover his reddening cheeks. "It is abject  _fact_ , it's-  _fenedhis_ , I'm in my fucking pyjamas, I'm-  _I'm wearing a shirt with a fucking nug on it_ -" 

"There's an easy fix for that," Dorian says, tugging at the hem of Mahanon's nightshirt. 

"I- fuck, I really should have gone first, this- you might have  _told_  me you're built like one of those Orlesian statues-" Mahanon grouses, but he drops his hands from his face and in a swift move he has his own shirt off, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor.

Dorian, somehow, was neither expecting nor prepared for the tattoos curling over Mahanon's chest in branching, intricate knots, some even cascading over his hips and disappearing under the band of his boxers. Quite unable to help himself, he puts a hand on Mahanon's shoulder and turns him slightly to see similar tattoos spanning across his shoulder blades and down the length of his spine. Mahanon watches him silently, and when Dorian looks he sees Mahanon's expression is almost wary, like he's unsure as to how Dorian will react.

"They're very beautiful," Dorian murmurs, and Mahanon relaxes. "As are you, by the way."

"I- oh. Wow. You think so?"

"You were saying something very sweet about 'abject fact' moments ago," Dorian says, taking the point of Mahanon's chin and tilting his face up towards his. "I could go on, you know. Expound on the virtues of your eyes, your lips-"

"I might actually explode if you do that," Mahanon says, and judging by the sparks starting to work their way through Mahanon's hair, it's not an entirely idle threat.

"Fun for another day, then," Dorian says. "Alright, we have several options for places to make terrible decisions - recommendations?"

"The way I see it, it's wall, under the table, on top of the table, or the cot if we're feeling particularly brave and well-balanced," Mahanon says, pressing forward to wrap his arms around Dorian, brushing kisses over his shoulder and collarbone. "I'm not fussy."

"Table it is," Dorian says.

It's a bit of a dance, getting over to the table and clearing aside the coffee and discarded clothing while still taking every opportunity to touch, to trace the lines of Mahanon's tattoos with careful fingertips all while kissing him breathless. Dorian lifts Mahanon off his feet to sit him on the table, and Mahanon wraps his legs around Dorian's thighs, his hands dropping to Dorian's belt as Dorian licks into his mouth - just a little, just enough to taste mint on his breath, just enough to tease his gently-parted lips. His skin starts to tingle, absorbing the sparks of Mahanon's magic that the elf doesn't seem too concerned about trying to control, and curiosity has him following the path left by the trailing sparks back to the source. 

Reaching out, analyzing Mahanon's magic in a way he hasn't had the chance to do before, he's surprised to find that behind the sparks and gentle touches of energy is a vast well of power, a whole thunderstorm packed into the elf's slight frame, his connection to the Fade wider, stronger, deeper than Dorian anticipated. Dorian, having always prided himself on his own private inferno, hasn't often found himself face-to-face with someone so easily matching his own power, and certainly wasn't expecting to find it in a quiet research assistant. 

He realizes he's staring only when Mahanon touches his face, his ears tilted in a way that Dorian's come to recognize as an elf-y expression of confusion or concern - one up, one down. "Everything okay?"

"You-" Dorian shakes himself, feeling oddly intoxicated. "You really  _could_  take out every single damn one of those idiots with a thunder bolt, couldn't you?"

Mahanon's ears right themselves, and he smiles, returning to the task of unbuckling Dorian's belt. "I could, yes."

"That's- you have to know that's not exactly  _common_."

"It's not uncommon," Mahanon says, adding a triumphant " _ha!_ " as the clasp flicks open, and he pulls Dorian's belt from the loops of his pants with a slither of fabric and leather. "You're like me, aren't you? I could feel it any time you walked into the room." 

"We're not really encouraged to hide it in Tevinter," Dorian says. "The more powerful your magic, the better your social clout."

Mahanon laughs. "Are you saying  _I'd_  have 'social clout'? Me? In  _Tevinter?_ "

"Well-" Dorian starts, and stops, because he can't think of a good way to put into words that elves with magic tend to do far better in Tevinter than those without. "Um."

"Trick question," Mahanon says, patting Dorian's arm. "But yes, given how stringent the laws are in this part of the world about 'excessive' use of magic, and given that I've already got a few things working against me on account of factors outside my control - being a Dalish elf, and all - I don't exactly advertise it."

"That's a fucking shame," Dorian says, a bit more emphatically than he intends, though he finds himself really meaning it. Mahanon looks up, startled. "You shouldn't have to hide anything about yourself for the sake of stupid people's comfort, especially something like this."

Mahanon raises his brows, looking a bit flattered. "You're impressed."

"I am," Dorian says, pressing close and cupping Mahanon's face in his hands. "If this were another time, another place, I'd like nothing better than to find some quiet, unpopulated area, and see what kind of merry magical mischief you and I could get up to together."

Mahanon's eyes flash, and Dorian can't tell if it's just his reflective Elvhen eyes in the low light, or a small sign of the vast storm Dorian can feel churning inside him now, but either way there's something fierce and almost feral in Mahanon's answering grin that has Dorian crashing his lips to Mahanon's again, heat rising in him that's part magic, part desire. 

There isn't much room for discussion now as Mahanon flicks open the top button of Dorian's slacks and pushes them down over Dorian's hips. Dorian kicks them off impatiently and presses forward, grinding up between Mahanon's legs, causing Mahanon's head to fall back with a soft whine as he clutches at Dorian's shoulders. The fabric of their smallclothes is thin enough to be nearly negligible, though the drag of cotton provides an added tease as they frot like desperate teenagers, until Dorian pushes Mahanon down against the table's surface so he can lick at those curling tattoos. Mahanon fists his hand in Dorian's hair, the other hand clawing at the table as Dorian puts his mouth on one of Mahanon's dusky nipples and sucks, kissing and biting until it's stiff and swollen and Mahanon's shaking with need.

"Fuck,  _professor_ ," Mahanon gasps, back arching, and part of Dorian realizes with some resignation that Mahanon is gaining an absolutely compromising power here, that he'll never be able to hear Mahanon call him that without thinking of this, even in public. In the here and now, however, it's fucking erotic, and Dorian feels his erection twitch in his briefs in response. He straightens, hauling Mahanon up with him with a growl, and Mahanon meets him with an equally passionate kiss, his magic so close to the surface that Dorian can taste ozone on his tongue. The electricity behind it is utterly invigorating, almost maddening, and Dorian feels his own magic rise hot and demanding under his skin in response. Mahanon can feel it too, if his low moan is any indicator, and where Mahanon's magic seems to kick Dorian's adrenaline into overdrive, the elf seems to almost melt under the heat of Dorian's, becoming relaxed and pliant in Dorian's arms and even nuzzling into Dorian's neck with a purr. 

As willing as Dorian is to make terrible decisions, his last functioning brain cell is fully aware that they can't really fuck in the research room - though that brain cell is hotly tested by the rest of Dorian, sorely tempted by the moaning elf punch-drunk with magic and rubbing against him like a cat.  _Another time, another place, damn it._

Instead, he lets his magic gather in his hand, hot and brimming with energy. He touches his fingertips to Mahanon's chest, steadying Mahanon as he flinches back with a hiss, then presses forward again, shivering as he adjusts to the heat. Mahanon looks up, eyes half-lidded and heavy, his swollen lips parted, panting, and he nods. 

Dorian is slow, his hand trailing a teasing path down Mahanon's chest, his stomach, even tracing the lines of Mahanon's hips until Mahanon finally seems to lose the patience afforded to him by his heat-heavy state and bites Dorian's shoulder, his pointed teeth providing perfect, sharp pleasure, urging Dorian on to slip his hand into Mahanon's boxers. 

Mahanon cries out, curling against Dorian as he wraps his hot hand around Mahanon's length, slowly stroking him off. Mahanon squirms, pulling back then pressing forward, shuddering against Dorian with heaving breaths.

"Is it too much?" Dorian asks, kissing Mahanon's forehead and tasting salt, sweat beading over Mahanon's dark skin. 

" _Yes_ ," Mahanon chokes, but grabs Dorian's wrist when he starts to pull away. "Yes, but- I want- I  _want_  too much, it's fucking perfect, I- don't fucking stop."

"Are you-?"

"Dorian,  _please!_ "

Dorian obliges with another long, slow stroke, and Mahanon keens, pushing into Dorian's hand. There's a small crackling sound, more of that ozone scent, and before Dorian has half a mind to investigate the source Mahanon puts his fingertips to Dorian's chest and a jolt of energy passes through him, lighting up his nerves and making his entire body feel light it's buzzing from head to toe. The jolt is followed by a steady stream of sparks, tingling as they sink into his skin, just on the edge of something like pain, but so much fucking better. Pure sensation.

"Can I-?"

"Maker,  _yes._ "

Mahanon wastes no time freeing Dorian's length from his briefs and gripping him tight in his sparking, shaking hand. Dorian forgets to breathe for a moment, his hand stuttering on Mahanon as that buzzing, tingling feeling teases every last nerve in his cock, bringing him dangerously close to the edge after only one or two strokes.

"Fuck, Mahanon-"

"On me," Mahanon whispers, voice shaky. He leans back against the table and Dorian follows, bracing a knee on the table's surface so he can move over him and meet Mahanon's mouth with his own. It's not very graceful, but it works, and it's worth it to see Mahanon spread out beneath him, arching into his hand with a long whine as Dorian starts to stroke him again, his cries muffled by Dorian's lips. 

Mahanon comes first, gasping Dorian's name as his length throbs in Dorian's grip, cum splattering prettily over his tattooed chest. Dorian strokes him through his release, whispering all kinds of praise and sweet words into his pointed ears, making Mahanon squirm and whimper even as he finishes. The sight of Mahanon flushed and covered in his own spend would be enough to bring Dorian off as it is, but Mahanon tightens his grip determinedly and presses another wave of magic into Dorian, even leaning up to sink his sharp little teeth into Dorian's collarbone for good measure. Dorian comes with a sharp gasp, a savage satisfaction rushing through him as he adds his own release to Mahanon's, the elf falling back to catch it all on his chest and stomach. 

Dorian collapses onto the table next to Mahanon, a hand coming up to stroke Mahanon's hair. Mahanon smiles and presses into the simple touch, that low purr rumbling deep in his chest again, and Dorian can't help but laugh. "So you really do purr, then?"

"Some of us do, if we've got good reason to," Mahanon murmurs, eyes fluttering shut as Dorian pets him, still smiling. "That- what you did with your hand-"

"Fun, isn't it?"

"I thought I was going to die a really, really fun death, Mythal's  _mercy,_  you need to teach me that."

Dorian grins, turning over on the table to face Mahanon. "My darling, there's no end to the things I'd love to teach you."

Mahanon opens his eyes to happy little slits. He waves a hand over his chest and in a blink of magic the mess is gone, leaving him free to roll onto his side too so he can kiss Dorian sweetly. "We could even upgrade from doing this on a table." 

"What an unimaginable luxury," Dorian says dryly, silencing Mahanon's ensuing giggles with another deep kiss. 

 

-

 

**To: The Brute**

Some fucking idiots destroyed Mahanon's apartment and he's sleeping in the research room, is it already if we lend him the guest bedroom for the weekend? I'm not sure if it's really safe for him to be staying up here, quite honestly.

**To: The Brute**

That's my research assistant by the way, Mahanon. I don't think I've ever mentioned his name.

 

**From: Be TTrue**

sn . a

 

**To: The Brute**

Damn it, the phone is acting up again, I didn't get that last. But yes, I was thinking we could just have a quiet night, sort things out, some wine, dinner?

 

**From: B.eE Tr Uth**

sn . a gin a neh.s

 

**To: The Brute**

Are any of these getting through??

 

**From: t He B.rute**

e. p, I g ot the message, kadan. sounds good to me, let me know if I should pick up anything on the way home tonight.

 

**To: The Brute**

Thank you for accommodating, I'm... honestly very happy you two will finally be meeting. 

 

**From: 00100100001**

H A he a hA ha HA ja jA ja yyyyy

 

**To: The Brute**

I have no idea how to interpret that. 

 

-

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

f/////UCking i- 0ts ap a rt,,,,,me nt? sleepbedsleep r00m---s?afe

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

m,,,ahaAHAHAnaha?non

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

what

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

AMN+=pH0nnnnne,,,, cti n g uP, y-es, I was .    thinking we could just?./ have a quiet night, sort things out, some wine, dinner?

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

dorian, sweetheart, your phone's doing the thing again, I'm not getting most of these

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

-re aNY? of these getting through?

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

not really, but I got the message, kadan. sounds good to me, let me know if I should pick up anything on the way home tonight.

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

Thank you for    . accommodating, ?I'm... honestly very hahA ha HE ha HA ha ha Haja ya ha He..0.0ah//ha

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

that's terrifying as fuck

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

hA ha he hha ha HA aha he a ha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so at one point this week while writing this chapter I had a minor crisis because I realized that they wouldn't call it an Adam's apple in Thedas, and after three goes at the line and guesses as to what they MIGHT call it ("Maferath's Apple" almost won), I deleted the line and wrote around it. if anyone has a good guess as to what they'd call it in a land without biblical influences, please let me know in the comments!
> 
> also this chapter was the product of me having five things to do today, getting overwhelmed, and finishing this off to feel some kind of sense of accomplishment before going on to the stuff I ACTUALLY HAVE TO DO, so this chapter has been brought to you by the letters A, D, and D!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> click here to access the [chaos phone's college fund](https://ko-fi.com/foxnonny)
> 
> (I mean, not really - the chaos phone would not do well in formal education)
> 
> thank you to everyone who has donated already, and for everyone who has supported this fic through comments, kudos, and shares <3 you're all the absolute best

Bull fucking loves Fridays. 

As someone whose job for a good long part of his life was knowing how to read a given room, Fridays are usually the best days to be out in public. Saturday, everyone's stressed all to fuck trying to get their weekend chores in. Sunday, there's that pressure to relax that makes relaxing completely fucking impossible. 

Nah, Fridays are great, and usually he likes to spend his Fridays at the Herald, kicked back with his Chargers and blowing off steam from the week. But every so often he and Dorian take a Friday night in, just for the two of them. Tonight is shaping up to be one of those nights. 

He does swing by the Herald on the way home to get Krem and the others settled in, maybe catch a chance to flirt with Lavellan for a bit before getting back up to Skyhold proper. 

He's got Lavellan on his mind as he pushes the door to the busy bar open, catching and holding it for an elf in a button-down shirt and glasses bustling in behind him. He does a double-take when he hears the elf speak with a very familiar voice. 

"Thanks," says Lavellan, pushing the glasses up off his crooked nose as the door swings shut behind them both, plunging them into the dim light of the bar. "The number of times I've been smacked by that door-"

"Since when do you wear glasses?" Bull asks, looking Lavellan up and down. He's looking a little run down, some big bags under the eyes, and the shirt's got more than a few wrinkles around the hems, but he seems to be in good spirits. "Or... are those dress pants?"

"It's for my other job," Lavellan says, grinning. "Well, I mean, the glasses aren't - I mean they are, but it's more of a light sensitivity thing? Anyway, Cabot was kind enough to give me the night off, so I'm just dropping through to pick up my cheque."

Bull can't help it; he snickers a bit. "You know you look like a nerd, right?"

"Shush."

"Seriously, the Chargers should see this-"

"I like to think this outfit just happens to showcase my  _massive_  intelligence."

"Is that what we're calling it now?"

Lavellan punches Bull's arm, and Bull smacks his ass, forcing the elf to bite back a yelp. 

"Seriously, how've you been, though?" Bull asks, as Lavellan tenderly touches his bottom and glowers up at him, though he's clearly struggling not to laugh. "Tuesday night was rough. Any more trouble with those Orlesian fucks?"

Lavellan's hand drops with his expression, and his eyes flick away for a brief moment before he replies, "Uh, nope. None at all."

"Right. You know you're a shittastic liar, right Boss?"

Lavellan mutters something rude and Dalish under his breath and starts to walk towards the bar, Bull following close. "Alright, fine, you were right. You were absolutely right and I didn't listen, and it's all very embarrassing, do you want to talk about the weather? It's a nice day out, we could absolutely talk about the weather."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm... fine," Lavellan pauses by the end of the bar, turning to look up at Bull. "A lot better off now than I was, anyway. Turns out they were, actually, familiar with where I lived. And how to get in."

Bull frowns. "'Lived,' past tense?"

"It's a bit up in the air right now, there's some repair work to be done after their, um, visit."

"Shit."

"Yeah." Lavellan blows out a sigh, and under the light of the bar Bull can see a line of bruises along the elf's jaw where the Orlesian grabbed his face Tuesday night. "Upside is, I haven't seen them since, so there's that."

"I mean, sure, there's that," Bull says, not bothering to keep the dubious tone out of his voice. "Have you got a place to stay right now? I've got a guest bedroom back at my place, I'm sure my partner wouldn't mind-"

"Someone beat you to the offer, but thanks," Lavellan says, seeming to find something of his previous cheer again. "Honestly, if anything today's just been... I don't know. A strangely good day, all things considered."

"It's Friday."

"It sure is."

Lavellan moves to disappear behind the bar, but Bull grabs his wrist.

"You... know you can call me, right? If you're ever in trouble like that?" He slips his hand down to take Lavellan's, giving it a quick squeeze. "I'd come help out, no matter what's going on. Fuck, everyone else would probably show up too, and that's the makings of a party right there."

Lavellan's smile, his eyes, are very soft as he looks up at Bull. "You know I'm always down for a party."

"Fuck yeah."

"Seriously though, it... it means a lot, and apparently asking for help is something that I need to work on as a person - kind of got an earful for that this morning."

"I hear you. No one likes being in that position. But I've got your back, anyway."

"And if you ever need a Dalish mage - well, more than one, but don't tell Dalish I said that - I've got yours." Lavellan grins. "Or, you know, even if you just need someone to pin against a wall sometimes, I'm usually available."

Bull lifts Lavellan's hand to his mouth and kisses it, grinning as Lavellan's eyes go very wide at this, the playful grin slipping into a far more heated expression. "Oh, I know you are, Boss."

He drops Lavellan's hand and steps back with a wink before turning to look for the Chargers, gratified to hear the telltale  _thunk_  and quiet curse of Lavellan walking directly into the bar a moment later.

He finds the Chargers at their usual table, already set up with a few pitchers between them and some baskets of bread and chips. 

"That wasn't Lavellan, was it?" Krem asks as Bull slides into an empty chair, pouring half a glass of beer for himself. "All... professor-like, and whatnot."

"Wasn't a bad look for him," says Skinner with a shrug. "But Grim thought it was his evil alternate universe twin, didn't you Grim?"

Grim grunts, and drinks his beer. 

"I keep forgetting he's a student," says Krem. "He's way too fun to be an academic."

"He'd have graduated by now, wouldn't he?" Bull says.

"Nah, he's getting his master's or something - some kind of grad program, at any rate. Works as a research assistant during the day, I think." Krem squints at Bull. "You should know this, you're dating the guy."

"Right," Bull says noncommittally, something tickling at the back of his brain. He pulls out his phone and checks through his most recent conversation with Dorian. It's weird, but there's nothing in there about anyone coming to crash with them tonight, and Dorian... well, Dorian would tell him. He lets the thought go. "Kind of a small world, I guess."

"What?"

"Nothing." He throws back half the beer in his glass and shoves his phone back in his pocket. "Anyway, I'm not staying long. Dorian and I are having dinner tonight. Quiet evening."

"Like an old married couple," says Dalish. "Lucky."

"Sure am." Bull looks to the bar and sees Lavellan coming out from the back. The elf grins at him and gives him a little wave, which Bull returns, before turning and making his way to the doors.

Something else starts to nag at Bull, a very different kind of thought altogether. He turns back to the table. "I wasn't here Wednesday night - was Lavellan working then?"

Krem shakes his head. "Nope, he's usually off Wednesdays."

"And he wasn't here last night." 

"Nope."

Bull glances at the doors of the bar, already swinging shut behind Lavellan. He takes a very long sip of his beer, frowning.  _Probably nothing, but..._ "And those Orlesians haven't tried coming back in at all?"

Skinner bares her teeth, looking very annoyed. "Nope, but we saw them skulking around. They usually hang out at the café across the street, the fucks. Dalish and I were talking about maybe jumping them last night, weren't we?"

"It was certainly tempting," mutters Dalish. 

Suddenly, the bar is rocked with a loud  _boom_  of thunder, causing at least one patron to fall out of his seat in shock as the Chargers all look up in startled bemusement. 

" _Fasta vass_ , that was right on top of us," says Krem incredulously.

"Didn't know there was a storm brewing," Rocky says, reaching for more beer. "It was sunny when we got here."

"It still is," mutters Bull. He tosses back the last of his beer and gets to his feet. "One sec, I gotta check something."

Despite missing a good portion of one of his legs, Bull prides himself on being able to move pretty fucking fast when he wants to. He's out of the bar - and under the clear, distinctly cloudless sky - in moments, scanning the street. It's mercifully empty, though there's a few people poking their heads out of various businesses and frowning up at the sunset, searching for a thunderhead that doesn't exist. 

Bull knows where all the blindspots and hidden areas are around the Herald like the back of his hand - has to, just because he's not Ben-Hassrath anymore doesn't mean he loses the years of training and conditioning. He makes a guess and heads for the closest alleyway, just aside the bar, and pokes his head around the corner.

Lavellan's there, standing by the dumpsters and frowning at something blocked from view by the bins, hands crossed under his chin. Cautiously, Bull walks over, nostrils flaring as he picks up the scent of something clean and sharp -  _ozone_  - and, unmistakably, a waft of burning hair.

Bull comes to Lavellan's side, who does not look up, and the new angle reveals pretty much exactly what Bull expected to find: the gently smoking, unconscious bodies of three very familiar Orlesian frat boys.

"Huh," says Bull.

"Mhm," says Lavellan. 

They stare a little longer. The Orlesian who threatened Lavellan on Tuesday twitches.

"Gonna guess you didn't just find them like this," says Bull.

"Nature works in mysterious ways," Lavellan says. "Especially when some idiots decide to drag an elf minding his own damn business into an alley for a beating."

"Right," Bull says, tilting his head. "That was a very specific bolt of lightning, that got them."

" _Very_  mysterious ways."

"None of them are dead, are they?"

"Oh fuck no," Lavellan says quickly. "Not even permanently hurt, probably, just... a bit stunned, is all."

"Stunned, and about to wake up with a very convincing story about a rogue, dangerous elf mage who just broke one or two or fifteen laws about excessive use of magic in an attempted triple homicide."

Lavellan closes his eyes. "Something like that, yes."

Another one of the Orlesians groans and shifts feebly, and it takes a considerable amount of effort on Bull's part not to take the opportunity to step on the fucker's face. Just for his own satisfaction. 

Instead, he turns to Lavellan, putting a hand on the elf's shoulder. "You want some help, Boss?"

Lavellan looks up at Bull, and sighs. "Please."

-

The Orlesian that Bull's pretty cozily identified as the ringleader is the first to wake up fully, shaking his head like a wet dog.

"That  _little-_ " he starts, sitting up with a snarl, and stops.

Stops, presumably, because waking up to the sight of seven mercenaries - including a massive, pissed-off qunari - glowering down at you would be enough to give any sane person pause. 

And pause he does. With an unsuccessfully muffled whimper. 

"Hey, Krem," Bull says, staring down the Orlesian with his one eye - not the hardest thing to do, given that the kid is still on the ground, but it keeps him pinned in place pretty effectively. "That was a weird fuckin' storm just now, wasn't it?"

"Super weird, Chief," says Krem.

"We all saw it, didn't we?" says Skinner, idly playing with a butterfly knife. 

"Crazy weather stuff happens on the surface all the time," says Rocky.

"Nice that it cleared up so we could enjoy the sunset," says Dalish. 

Grim grunts. 

"Sorry to see you got caught in it, but I checked you over and you all seem to be in remarkably good health," says Stitches. "Very lucky."

"Y-you can't intimidate us," says the Orlesian in a trembling voice, slapping the thigh of the boy slowly rousing himself next to him in a panic. "My father is a very important man-"

"Is he?" says Bull. "Must be nice. I'm sure he'll be happy to here you're completely unscathed after- what's the name of this particular phenomenon, Dalish?"

"A high-altitude micro-system with rapid static restabilization," says Dalish. "Rare, but you boys seem to be very special  _shemlen_  indeed, getting to join us in witnessing it firsthand."

"Because, as previously mentioned, we did  _all_  witness it," says Krem.

"You really think you can bullshit through this?" the Orlesian spits, even as his friend sits up with a groan that becomes a terrified squeak as he takes in his present company. "No one is going to believe the world of a bunch of lowborn  _animals-_ ACK-!"

Bull lets the Orlesian dangle from his fist for a few moments, his hand wrapped tight around the man's throat, watching impassively as he kicks and claws at Bull's knuckles. He waits until the Orlesian has turned an intriguing shade of purple before releasing him, only for the kid to immediately drop to his knees again. 

"Some people really don't know how to talk to their betters, do they, Chief?" Krem says coolly. 

"No manners at all," says Bull. 

"That elf broke the  _law_ ," chokes the Orlesian, glancing back over his shoulder for support. The other two boys, both of them now fully awake, stay pressed against the alley wall, one of them even shaking his head. "I'll have him arrested, I-" he looks up, suddenly sly. "You know, my family is  _very_  rich, and you all look like you could use a bit more gold in your pocket. If you act as a witness for  _me-_ "

Bull kicks him in the chest - not enough to snap his ribs, as tempting as that is, but it takes the wind out of him and knocks him on his ass, which is nice. 

"Here's the thing," Bull says, crouching with a wince as his bad knee twinges. "We've done a lot of powerful people a lot of very interesting favours of the years - here, in Ferelden proper, even in your lovely little country."

"Lots of friends in high places," Krem says. "Even more friends in low places. No, Rocky, that wasn't aimed at you."

Rocky grumbles. 

"You're under the adorable impression that you're untouchable, the three of you," Bull continues, reaching down and grabbing the Orlesian by the scruff of his shirt, hauling him up to face him. "You're not. No one is. And lots of people go missing in these mountains."

"It's a pretty common mountain phenomena," says Skinner.

"Like that micro-system we all just experienced," says Dalish.

"Now, we could show you where all the missing people go tonight," says Bull, shaking the Orlesian a bit and grinning as his friends whimper. "But that's not really our style, is it, Krem?"

"No, Chief, because we're nice to pathetic creatures," says Krem. "We wouldn't help them go missing. That's not our policy."

"We have a different policy on fingers, though," says Skinner, flipping her knife.

"A three-strike policy," says Bull, pulling out his own little pocket knife. "We make it really easy for you to keep track. Three fingers, then we take the rest of you. I think it's pretty fair, wouldn't you say?"

The Orlesian stares at the knife, instinctively balling his hands into tight fists. "You wouldn't-"

"He would," say the rest of the Chargers in bored tandem.

"It's tempting," says Bull, "But you seem like you've got something of a brain rattling around in there, and like Krem said, we're nice guys, really. We could all just agree that we're never really going to be friends with one another, make peace with that, and go our separate ways with the strict understanding that if you go anywhere near that elf again, if he even catches sight of any one of your sorry fucking faces, all three of you will go to bed that night and wake up one or two digits short of a full hand."

"If you wake up at all," adds Krem.

The Orlesian swallows. "You- you can't do that-"

Bull jerks the Orlesian forward until his mouth is at the kid's ear, and murmurs, "We've done it before. Believe me,  _boy_ , you don't want to make us your problem. Understand me?"

The Orlesian shivers and finally, slowly, nods.

Bull pats his cheek, and drops him to the concrete. "Smart kid. Krem, you wanna give them back their wallets?"

"In a moment," Krem says. "Have we got it all down?"

"Names, addresses, PINs, banking info, and the tips they were planning on leaving the Boss the last few times they've come round the bar," Rocky says, holding up a few thick wads of cash. "No worries, kiddos, we'll pass those along for you. You can have the rest back."

"See? We're not unreasonable," says Bull, as three wallets come sailing over his shoulder, one of them pegging one of the Orlesians square in the face. "Just remember, we can find you anywhere, any time. If you really want to test us, go ahead and try calling the cops on us, if you think it's worth it."

"Sometimes people think it's worth a go," says Krem. "Never is, though, is it?"

"Not for them, at least," Skinner says. "It's pretty fun for us."

"We do like to have fun," says Bull, getting to his feet. "Enjoy the evening."

-

Lavellan's swishing the contents of a glass of beer around morosely at the Charger's table when they come back in, his glasses pushed back up onto his hair. Bull takes the seat next to his and claps a hand on his back. "It's taken care of, Boss."

"Yep, we buried them somewhere they'll never be found," says Skinner.

Lavellan, in the middle of taking a swig, chokes and looks at Bull in abject horror. " _What?_ "

"She's kidding- Skinner, come on, be nice," Bull says, rolling his eye when Skinner just grins. "Anyway, they probably won't bother you again, but if they do let us know and we'll deal with it."

"Thank you," Lavellan says softly, sagging in his seat. He looks around at all the Chargers. " _All_  of you. You didn't have to get involved-"

"What, and let a bunch of jocks keep beating on some poor nerd?" Krem says, grinning. "Just didn't seem right."

"Not a nerd," mutters Lavellan, taking another sip of his beer. Bull reaches for the glass when he sets it down again, only for Lavellan to smack his hand away. " _Oi_ , I put some lyrium in that, you don't want to be drinking it."

"Mage's backwater cocktail," Dalish says, nodding. "That was some neat work, by the way. Very controlled. And without a focus?"

"Not exactly," says Lavellan, pulling out a small leather-sheathed silver knife from his pocket. "It's mostly within guidelines for foci, not that anyone ever checks. I tell people it's a Dalish thing and they tend to leave it alone."

"And how would you know so much about foci, Dalish?" asks Skinner slyly.

"Purely academic interest," says Dalish primly, picking up her beer and taking a long swig.

Lavellan drains his cup and gets to his feet. "If there's any way I can thank you all properly-"

"Free round of shots next time you're on," says Krem instantly.

"The good shit," adds Rocky.

"Whatever won't get you fired," says Stitches.

Lavellan grins. "Alright, you're on."

"I should get going too," says Bull, standing. "Come on, Boss, you can walk me to my bike. Throw some lightning at people if they look at us funny."

"Don't tempt me," mutters Lavellan, a stray spark wandering through his curls.

Bull puts his arm around Lavellan, who leans into his side, and they walk like that to the doors. 

"I could give you a lift back up the mountain if you need it," says Bull, as they step out into the street. The sun's nearly set now, a dusky twilight setting in. "I'm heading that way anyway."

"I've got a stop or two to make along the way, I wouldn't want to keep you," says Lavellan. "And anyway, those kids aren't exactly the type to lower themselves by taking transit. I'll be alright."

"Fuck yeah you will," Bull says, grinning. "Badass little mage, you are."

"You know it." Lavellan stops, turning to face Bull fully. "Honestly, though... thank you. For helping me, and for- I don't know. I just appreciate you a lot, that's all. You're great."

"You're cute."

"Fuck off."

Bull leans down, and Lavellan's already up on his toes, meeting him halfway to kiss him.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Bull asks, his hand wandering down to find Lavellan's ass, and Lavellan laughs. 

"No plans yet. Any ideas?"

"Lots," Bull says, grinning as Lavellan shivers. "Ever heard of an Orlesian tickler?"

Lavellan raises a brow. "I read _._ "

"Ever heard of an  _Antivan_  tickler?"

"No, because you definitely just made that up."

"You willing to bet on that?"

"I'm willing to let you make me a believer," murmurs Lavellan, and Bull pulls him close for another long kiss. 

 

-

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

I picked up that red you like, anything else we need?

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

h  3 ll0 bu11

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

...yeah you're not dorian

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

am.atu s? 

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

nope nice try. can I talk to dorian?

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

p as swo,,,rd?

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

are you fucking kidding me

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

...? That wasn't aimed at me, was it?

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

ah there you are. your phone, kadan. it's getting ambitious.

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

Yes, I'm getting that impression. Everything alright?

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

hell yeah, I'll tell you all about it when I get in. I'm about five minutes out with wine, anything else we need?

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

I've got dinner going already, so we should be good. And M;;ah,0nnnn s . 1d ... s0on. 

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

yeah, that last bit got fucked. anyway, I think this was a good idea. it's been a while since you and I've had a night on our own, you know? and it's been such a fucking week. 

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

d;;i  .d m3 s sage       fr 0m???

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

you really need a new phone, babe

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

no I; d0n't

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

buddy seriously I KNOW when I'm talking to dorian and when I'm talking to not-dorian, give it a rest 

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

='(

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

is that... a crying face

 

**From: The 'Vint (not K)**

=''''''''''''''(

 

**To: The 'Vint (not K)**

yikes

 

-

 

**To: The Brute**

I've got dinner going already, so we should be good. And Mahanon should be arriving soon. 

 

**From: The Brute**

yeah, that last bit got fucked. anyway, I think this was a good idea. it's been a while since you and I've had a night on our own, you know? and it's been such a fucking week. 

 

**To: The Brute**

Wait, hold on, did you not get my message from earlier?

 

**From: The Brute**

you really need a new phone, babe

 

**To: The Brute**

You're not getting any of these messages either, are you??

 

**From: 1011101-0111001**

n..0

 

**To: The Brute**

WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME

 

**From: 10;10100010...1**

fu n n;er    t   h1 s    w.ay

 

-

 

Dorian tries calling Bull. Three times, he tries calling Bull. Each time he hears no dial tone, no ring, only a long echoing laughter that seems to reverberate all around him until he hangs up. 

"This is  _not fucking funny!_ " Dorian shouts the third time after hanging up. He stares down at his phone only to see his own furious expression reflected back at him as the phone switches on the camera of its own accord to a hideously unflattering selfie mode. "Oh fuck off, just- why. Why? How is it that the vast expanse of the chaos dimension seems to specifically have it out for  _me in particular?_ "

The camera switches off and a text alert pops up from another nonsense sender.

 

**From: et;;1ru0v af   n;Af  3h t**

1   didn;t  a sk? t0 b3   born,,,

 

Dorian squints, and nearly drops the phone. "Wait- born? Are... do you think you're alive?"

The phone gives an angry, clearly insulted buzz, and switches itself off. 

Feeling distinctly uneasy, Dorian puts the phone down on his kitchen counter and, after a truly insane thought, finds a cloth napkin to fold the phone up in as a makeshift bed. The thought that he might have accidentally created a sentient being is... well, it's a panic attack for another day. 

Speaking of panic attacks, his present conundrum returns to him in full force, causing him to pace anxiously between dining table (set for three people), kitchen (pasta sauce bubbling away, enough for three people), and living room (where he's been sorting through extra linens for the guest room, to entertain a third person). He decides, despairingly, that there's no coming out of this situation without being a complete dick to at least one person, no matter how accidentally the dickishness occurred. He can't call Mahanon and tell him not to come, very sorry, do enjoy finding accommodation at this time of night, especially not after everything the poor elf has been through this week. At the same time, springing this on Bull...

They've been riding this fine line so far without any real snag, and this? This feels like one clusterfuck of a snag. Dorian knows Bull will understand, has no doubt that he'll roll with this as he rolls with most things, but he shouldn't have to, and, well, Dorian feels like a dick. A massive, inconsiderate, absolute embarrassment of a dick.

_That fucking phone._

There's a familiar knock at the door, and as the handle turns and the door pushes open, Dorian closes his eyes, bracing himself for the no doubt extremely awkward conversation he's about to stumble through.

"Kadan, I'm starting to think that your phone's kind of... developing a personality?" Bull grunts as he pulls off his boots, tossing them carelessly into the closet. "Not sure, but it's wigging me out. Food smells fucking awesome from here, by the way."

"Bull-" Dorian starts, as Bull walks into the living room, cutting him off with a quick kiss before his eye falls on the pile of linens on the coffee table.

"You doing laundry?" Bull asks, ruffling Dorian's hair. "Have we gotten past our personal vendetta against the dryer, or-?"

"Bull, listen, I fucked up," Dorian says quickly, putting his hand on Bull's chest. Bull tilts his head, frowning. "I- well, the phone didn't fucking help at  _all_ , but I'm not trying to say it's entirely the phone's fault- but let's be frank, it is at least eighty percent the phone's fucking fault-"

"Slow down," Bull says, his voice... gentle, damn it, he already has his forgiving voice going, and it doesn't help assuage Dorian's guilt in the slightest. "What's going on?"

Dorian drops his gaze, not entirely able to look Bull in the eye. "I- I tried to text you this morning, and I thought you'd gotten the message, but- well, my- the elf I've been seeing, my research assistant, he got into a bit of trouble this week. Not of his own doing," Dorian says, feeling a familiar anger bubble up in him, but tamping down on it enough to continue. "Some prejudiced fucking frat boy idiots broke into his apartment Tuesday night and trashed the place, and he's been sleeping in the fucking research room of all places, and- well, I offered him our guest bedroom. Of course I didn't want to spring this on you or- or invite a stranger into your home without- sorry, are you fucking laughing right now?"

Bull - who absolutely, definitely  _was_ laughing, or at least having a very strange coughing fit - clears his throat and collects himself. "Uh, nope. No, that's not a thing I was doing at all. So, your research assistant-"

"Yes."

"-who's a bit of a nerd-"

"He's not a nerd."

"-who lives up at Skyhold-"

"Yes."

"-had his apartment trashed by Orlesian frat boys on Tuesday night-"

"Yes- did I say they were Orlesian? They were, but-"

"-and you offered him a place to stay, here."

"Yes..." Dorian frowns as Bull breaks into a broad grin. "You're taking this very well, are you feeling alright?"

"I'm feeling great," Bull says with quite frankly disturbing amounts of cheer, given the situation. "It's Friday night, I'm finally gonna meet the mystery elf who's claimed part of my kadan's heart, because my kadan is the kind of generous man who would offer up house and home to a guy in dire straits. That's more than fine by me, on one condition."

"Anything."  

"Pretty soon -  _really_  soon, I think - I wanna introduce you to the elf I've been seeing," Bull says, putting his hands on Dorian's shoulders. "I know I keep saying this, but I'm... pretty fucking confident now that you're gonna like him. A lot."

"Bull, I'd be more than happy to meet him," Dorian says, feeling a swell of immense relief and appreciation for the qunari standing in front of him. "You know what? You should invite him over some time." 

"Oh, should I?"

"Absolutely, you're- you're really being massively accommodating about this, and I really do want to meet this server, he sounds... well, I trust your taste."

"As you should." Bull tilts Dorian's chin up and kisses him, still grinning. "I'm gonna decant this wine, he's gonna be here pretty soon, yeah?"

"Any moment," says Dorian, his words punctuated by a knock at the door. "Right, that'll be him. Thank you again,  _amatus-_ "

Bull waves him off. "You're all good, Dorian. It's gonna be a fun night."

"I certainly hope so," says Dorian. 

It's almost a bit surreal, seeing Mahanon standing on Dorian's doorstep with his trunk in hand, looking a bit awkward and lost. That expression drastically shifts into a relieved smile when Dorian opens the door. 

"Thank the Creators, I was sure I had the wrong place for a moment, with the evening I've had," Mahanon says, shaking his head. "Thank you again, professor-"

"Alright, you absolutely have to call me Dorian in my own home," says Dorian, ushering him in. "Otherwise I'll start thinking I'm at work."

"Is that what you'll think?" Mahanon asks innocently, closing the door behind him. "We wouldn't want that, would we? Nothing fun ever happens at work."

"Not at all, because we're strictly professional," says Dorian. "Er, forgot to ask, how did you explain the, um-"

"Exploded lock?" 

"Yes, that."

"I said it was like that when I got there." Mahanon shrugs. "I'm not sure if they believed me, but they didn't ask too many questions."

"Thank the Maker. We really shouldn't do anything like that again."

"We shouldn't." Mahanon grins. "I mean, for one thing, there are far more comfortable places up on campus for that."

Dorian laughs. "Maybe the library next time? Though, imagine being caught by Solas..."

" _Mythal'enaste_ , imagine his face-"

"Library it is, then." Dorian kisses Mahanon, tucking a loose curl behind one of his pointed ears. "Alright, let's get you sorted out, dinner's about ready and I'd love for you to meet my partner."

"I brought some wine- nicked it from my other job, actually," Mahanon says, following Dorian out of the front hall and into the living room, just as Bull rounds the counter with a full decanter of red and three wine glasses. "Cabot won't miss it, I'm sure, and anyway I-"

Mahanon stops dead, dropping his trunk with a solid  _thunk,_ staring slack-jawed at Bull.

"I did mention he was qunari, right?" says Dorian, frowning. Mahanon doesn't move, his eyes still wide and shocked. "Mahanon, this is my partner, the Iron Bull. Bull, this is Mahanon Sliabh-Lavellan, my research assistant."

"Uh-huh," says Bull, his grin getting, if possible, even wider than it was before. He puts the wine and glasses aside and sticks out a hand to Mahanon. "Nice to meet you...  _Mahanon._ "

Mahanon, to Dorian's enormous relief, starts to smile back - first small, and uncertain, then with what seems like a growing confidence. He takes Bull's hand and shakes it, and, oddly, lets out a very short, poorly-contained giggle. Nerves, maybe.  

Then, suddenly, Bull tugs Mahanon over to his side, turning him to face Dorian.

"Dorian, I'd like to introduce you to Lavellan, the guy I've been telling you about," says Bull, beaming. "Lavellan - well, the Chargers and I call him 'Boss' - he and I've been seeing each other. Boss, this is Dorian, my  _fantastic_  partner."

"Hello," says Mahanon, with a little wave and a broad, red-faced smile. 

Dorian stares. Bull and Mahanon stare right back, seemingly in various stages of losing their shit.

"I-" Dorian looks from Mahanon to Bull and back again. "I'm- wait...  _wait._  No, you-"

There are so many questions, but... so much that suddenly makes sense, also. Quite a stupidly ridiculous amount of sense, in context. 

Dorian swallows, and looks at Mahanon. "Did... did you know?"

"Nope," says Mahanon, collapsing into a fit of giggles.

Dorian looks at Bull next, who's still grinning like a fucking  _asshole._  "And you-"

"Figured it out about two minutes ago," says Bull, snickering. "Otherwise, nope. Apparently, um, you and I have... really fucking similar tastes."

Dorian nods, once, very slowly. Then, despite himself, starts to smile. Then, laugh. 

A laugh that chokes off when he remembers-

"Wait- Mahanon, you-  _you_ hooked up with Bull? You hooked up with Bull in a  _back_ _alley?_ "

"So, how about that wine?" says Bull cheerfully, turning to pour three large glasses as Mahanon doubles over, laughing. Dorian, after a moment, joins him, laughing so hard he can't breathe, until Bull has to pick them both up from the floor and help them over to the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


End file.
